


When good people die they go to Paris

by GingerNinjaAbi



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, being human AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-13
Updated: 2015-03-27
Packaged: 2018-03-11 07:55:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 25,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3319874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GingerNinjaAbi/pseuds/GingerNinjaAbi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Paris in the summertime is a hot, chaotic sprawling mess of boulevards, cafes and sleeping cemeteries, and living there is rather difficult when you're dead. </p><p>Aramis takes issue with how much it is for a daiquiri with A Positive. Porthos can never quite convince the waiters that when he wants his steak rare, he <em>means</em> rare. And Athos can't quite shake the feeling that even after eighty three years, his past is about to catch up with him. </p><p>And D'artagnan is being ruthlessly stalked by a vampire, so his life could also be a fair bit simpler. </p><p>(aka a kind of being human au set a few miles away from bristol but who's counting)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rue Petit; Rue Léon Giraud

Paris in the late summer of 2012 was a far distant cry from the city he’d known eighty three years ago.

The Paris of 1929 had been some gaudy, preening thing; like the flapper girls that would cluster outside the cafés; rouge on their cheeks and tucking cropped hair behind their ears. Carriages had so recently progressed to cars; Flints and Bentleys; a new excitement that was now some vintage antique. 

He was glad he’d run from the wars; glad he’d never seen the pastel buildings and lead haphazard rooftops draped with the swastika, or heard that empty, ringing noise of marching boots across the city. 

All those times were gone now; long past, along with the people he had known from them; and there were so little things to remember those times by. 

He supposed, on a level, that he had been forgotten too. 

The glaring sun settled bleaching light down on Rue Petit that afternoon; like a lady coating powder over the blemishes on her skin. The litter fluttering idly in a lethargic breeze seemed almost artful; the peeling, moulding posters for nightclubs on the Avenue Jean Jaurès cast innovative and pretty. 

A train rattled past on the bridge over the street; echoing into the tunnel beneath it that was stained with hurried graffiti. 

The apartment block was cool compared to the spotlight created by the late summer sun outside; and Athos supposed it would have erupted goosepimples on his flesh. Had his skin been able to do that since 1929. 

The plastic bag he’d set the groceries in rasped and rustled its complaints as it hit against his leg up the sets of stairs; all the way to the fifth floor. The stairwell stank of bleach and some unplaceable, unpleasant scent that always came from communal buildings. 

Aramis was where he had left him as he shouldered the front door open; sprawled out on the grey armchair that was set in the centre of the dark, mostly empty room; heavy curtains allowing nothing but a slither of sunlight to enter in through the large, rectangular window. The TV in the corner was still showing some rerun; its satellite skewed and the corner of the screen cracked. 

“I’m considering taking it off the latch the next time you leave.” Aramis informed him, angling his head so he could take Athos in without shifting excessively. “To see if you _can_ actually move through walls, like a good ghost is supposed to.”

“It’s nice to do things properly.” Athos replied, voice heavy and clipped over the words as he headed to the small open kitchen. 

“Hmm.” Aramis continued, humour weighted in his voice as he shifted, “I’m sure that’s true. I’m just very certain I’ve never seen you move through furniture,” He paused before calling, “Have you, Porthos?”

“Not once.” Porthos’s deep voice sounded from the next room. 

“It _would_ be a party trick.” Aramis concluded, setting his legs on the arm of the chair and appraising Athos as he dumped the carrier bag on the nearest worktop. 

“It’s fortunate that we don’t have parties, then.” Athos responded, before extricating a four euro steak from the bag. “I assume this is your latest project on how to isolate ourselves further from normal people?” 

“Do I smell steak?” Porthos called. It came muffled, which seemed to suggest he was speaking from beneath a pillow.

“You know full well I stand for as much integration as possible.” Aramis said, lifting his arms up over his head in a languid stretch. “You’re far too secluded already.”

“Says the person who is currently voluntarily sitting alone in a dark room.” Athos informed him, flicking him a quietly amused glance.

“A ‘person’?” Aramis grinned, cocking his head at the word as if considering it, “If you say so.”

There was a loud bang against the nearest bedroom door and Athos looked up to see Porthos leant against it, one hand working across his face,

“Where’s the steak?” He asked thickly.

Athos wordlessly gestured to the countertop. He accidentally put his hand through it, and Aramis raised his arms in mock celebration. 

“I’d never have put steak down as a werewolf hangover cure.” Aramis said, watching as Porthos stumbled forwards in the direction of the linoleum kitchen tiles, still blearily rubbing his eyes. “In my day it was all a brisk fencing matches followed by wine.”

“There he goes again with the ‘in my day’ talk,” Porthos grumbled, and he picked up the steak and tore the corner off cleanly with his teeth. Despite the years of knowing him, Athos had not quite adapted to that preference yet. “We need to get him a rocking chair.”

“You didn’t ask what my hangover cure is now,” Aramis prodded, and Athos took in the light in his eyes with something like dread,

“What is it now?” Porthos asked with a heavy sigh, words compounded by raw meat.

“Bloody Mary.” Aramis chimed instantly, and Porthos choked on the steak. 

“That’s not funny.” Athos informed Aramis, patting Porthos on the back out of habit rather than efficiency. He was after all doing nothing but making a hand sized span of Porthos’s shoulder rather cold. If he tried hard, Porthos would feel something like impact. 

“I’m joking, of course.” Aramis said, and he stretched out a foot. It skimmed the span of sunlight that had made its way into the room, and he withdrew it instantly, hissing slightly. 

“This blasted summer,” He grumbled, “September is never this sunny, I’m sure of it.” 

“Anyone would think you’d turn to dust if you looked at it.” Porthos chuckled.

“A pity.” Athos said, smirking. 

“It makes my skin itchy.” Aramis pouted. 

“If its seclusion that’s bothering you, Aramis,” Porthos said between a yawn, “I’m going to Abracadabra tonight.”

Aramis perked visibly at this news. 

“Athos is coming too.” He chimed, triumph blazing in his eyes.

“I most certainly am not.” Athos replied stoutly, leaning back against the fridge and crossing his arms. It was hard to do without sinking through it, but he’d perfected it. Eighty three years was a long time to practice, after all.

“What?” Aramis questioned, something irritatingly like derision coming over his tone, “Are you reading _A Moveable Feast_ again? Or is it _Ethan Frome_ this time?” 

“ _Twilight._ ” Athos shot back, and Aramis looked exceedingly unimpressed. 

“Of course he’s coming,” Porthos said, and it might have been the way he had to speak around another mouthful of steak, but his voice sounded distinctly like a growl, “We’re celebrating another full moon going by, and we’re celebrating it in the worst bar within walking distance.”

“And the most ironic, I suppose.” Aramis mused, “In spire of everything, we know there’s no such thing as magic.”

\- 

D’Artagnan didn’t know exactly when he’d become aware he was being followed.

He’d got off the metro at Ourcq; the high rises crowding in about him as he’d made his way towards the wider roads; cars speeding past and traffic lights flashing.

He was down some side street near the canal now; unfamiliar, shuttered shop windows crowded about him. The street light he ran under flickered; the shadows of dark, parked cars leaping at him. 

He couldn’t hear footsteps, but he knew someone was there; knew he was being watched in a way that prickled the back of his neck and sent his blood cold as it pulsed about his veins.

The buildings to his right were shut off by a high fence, and he’d have vaulted them, but did he have _time_?

A road branched left and he sprinted down it; feet ringing on the tarmac. There were lights at the end of the road; the pulse of club music and the distant echo of voices and maybe if he could make it, just fifty metres away-

A body collided with him and he was thrown forwards. His chin hit against the paving and his vision blurred and stuttered as pain shot about his head. He went to yell before he was thrown up against a roller shutter and he choked, winded. The shutter rattled and boomed and a voice gave a low breath of amusement. 

“Please don’t take this too personally,” It said; a voice that was low and female, “I’d hate for this to be awkward.” 

His vision was still swimming; pain clouding his eyes and he kicked out uselessly; pinned to the roller shutter by a grip that was like iron. The hand at his throat was choking him; and this was no mugging, he was going to die here, some dingy alleyway in Paris. Something glinted before him, and his watering eyes registered _teeth _?__

__There was a hoarse cry, and then the shutter pressing into his back was gone. He was thrown forwards; hitting against the road once more. His ribs burned, breaths ragged and stuck in his throat and he scrambled to his feet, and stumbled again._ _

__Then hands were gripping him again, harsh and he kicked an elbow back. It connected with skin and the person above him let out an curse._ _

__“I’m trying to _help_ you.” Said a distinctly male voice. _ _

__D’artagnan might have responded to that, but at that moment the pain in his ribs caught up with him, and instead the world rushed forwards again, and he settled for blacking out.__

 _ _-__

 _ _The ceiling above him was grey and stained._ _

__It focused itself as he opened his eyes; years of watermarks rushing into detail. A bare light bulb glared harshly down on him and D’artagnan shut his eyes again; groaning. He raised a hand to his head and stinging pain emerged along his palms._ _

__For some reason, the room smelt of dog._ _

__The realisation of the unfamiliarity of the place met him like a wave, and he threw himself from the bed, staggering as pain shot about his chest._ _

__The door he threw open led out into a sparsely furnished room; fluorescent lighting shining harshly down on a kitchen in the corner. He reeled forwards; towards the door at the edge of the room, the thought that he had to leave pounding through his head like the blood he could still smell on his skin._ _

__“I’d have a rest if I were you.” A voice said conversationally._ _

__He spun round, and his side gave a sharp stab of pain that had him sinking to his knees._ _

__There were three people sitting on white plastic chairs, out on a balcony set past a sliding glass door. The darkness of the night outside had hidden them from his frantic glance about the room. Three men, all watching him._ _

__“Preferably somewhere more comfortable than the floor.” The same man continued; pushing up a pair of sunglasses. They abruptly tangled in his waving hair and he swore quietly._ _

__“Where am I?” D’artagnan demanded, and his hand slammed down on the arm of a chair nearby as he hauled himself up, despite his body screaming in protest._ _

__“Apartment 34, 60 Rue Petit, 75019.” The man said again, and brought a cigarette to his lips. He took a drag and then unnecessarily added with an exhale of smoke, “Paris, France.”_ _

__“I know where I am,” D’artagnan snarled, a hand pressed against his side, and his head was pounding from the pain; flashes of streetlights flickering across his mind, and the glare of it on pavement._ _

__“Then why on earth did you ask?”_ _

__“Aramis.” One of the other men said in a commanding tone, and the man lowered his sunglasses back over his eyes, smirking slightly. The man who had spoken got to his feet, stepping back inside the apartment,_ _

__“I suggest you sit down,” He said. He was gently spoken; and the intensity of his gaze instilled a hesitation about D’artagnan’s mind. “You need to rest.”_ _

__“Bruised ribs, by the looks of it.” The man named Aramis interjected._ _

__“I don’t remember what happened,” D’artagnan heard himself say, and his mind had gone blank; his palms still stinging._ _

__The man before him closed a hand about his arm, and with something cut between firmness and gentleness, hauled him to his feet and deposited him on the armchair. D’artagnan had a coat on, but for some reason, the man’s touch felt as if ice had been touched against his skin._ _

__“What’s your name?” He asked in a quiet voice._ _

__“D’artagnan-”_ _

__“You don’t remember anything?” The third man questioned; a broad shouldered figure that made the white plastic chair he was sitting in seem oddly comical. A scar had cut its way across one brow and that flight instinct sprung back into D’artagnan’s chest like the wings of a caged bird. The man was watching D’artagnan closely, as if searching for something in his face._ _

__“Nothing.” He said firmly, feeling his jaw grit._ _

__“Mugging gone wrong,” The man who had helped him into the chair said, and his voice was firm despite its quiet tenor. “We were passing by and your assailant ran off.”_ _

__“It was a woman.” D’artagan suddenly said, and he felt himself looking closely at the man, and he couldn’t say why an uneasy suspicion was crawling in his stomach,_ _

__“I seem to recall you just said you didn’t remember anything.” Aramis reminded him in an amicable tone that none the less made D’artagnan's muscles tense._ _

__“Why didn’t you take me to the hospital?” He suddenly demanded, “Why am I here?”_ _

__“I voted for the hospital.” The large man put in, as if that were some kind of consolation,_ _

__“We just wanted to be sure,” Aramis said, tipping back on the chair, “If you were fine.”_ _

__“And is he?” The man nearest D’artagnan asked, and he was speaking to Aramis, who after a moment’s pause set his chair back on the floor with a hollow clatter. He got to his feet and stepped back into the apartment, pausing before D’artagnan and sinking to his knees._ _

__They were level, and D’artagnan held his gaze, utterly bewildered, fear curdling in his stomach. Fear, and some hesitant form of growing anger._ _

__Aramis’s eyes were brown; and a severity that was quite out of place for his earlier blasé attitude clouded over them. The smell of cigarette smoke furled into the space between them._ _

__Then Aramis sat back, returning the cigarette to his lips and getting to his feet once more,_ _

__“He’s fine,” He told the man nearest them._ _

__“Isn’t that something a doctor could have said, instead?” D’artagnan demanded, and Aramis sent him an amused look at that, as if he’d said something ridiculous._ _

__“You said it was a woman who attacked you.” The quiet man asked, “Did you see her face?”_ _

__“What?” D’artagnan asked, and tiredness was weighting him down as if he were treading water in a vast ocean, “ _No_ , what is going-”_ _

__“So you didn’t know her?”_ _

__“I fail to see how this is helping.” D’artagnan said brusquely, and a stab of pain doubled him up once more, “ _God_ , do you have painkillers?”_ _

__The three men exchanged glances, which D’artagnan took for a negative,_ _

__“Better yet,” He revised, and it took every ounce of strength to get himself to his feet, “Take me to a hospital.”_ _

__“They can do nothing more for you.” The quiet man informed him, “It’s late. You can rest here and leave in the morning.”_ _

__“How about you get some painkillers, Athos?” The large man suggested, still looking at D’artagnan with something like suspicion, and the quiet man gave a shrug of compliance, before heading towards the door._ _

__“And an ice pack.” Aramis called after him._ _

__D’artagnan felt his legs sway disobediently. His head was spinning, his ribs aching with every breath, and the hostel he was staying at was an arrondissement away._ _

__He didn’t really think through the motion that brought him back to sitting on that faded armchair once more, but his body welcomed the decision._ _

__“Good.” Aramis said, finishing his cigarette and crushing it on the railing of the balcony. He got to his feet, dragging the chair inside with him, “How about some terrible television? I do believe _Marc et Sophie _is on.”___ _

____“Who are you?” D’artagnan asked, and he didn’t intend for the words to sound as tired as he felt._ _ _ _

____Aramis considered him a moment before sweeping a hand to his chest,_ _ _ _

____“Aramis,” He said, unnecessarily, before gesturing at the large man, “Porthos.” His hand waved forwards to finally motion flamboyantly at the door the third man had left by. “And Athos. We saved your life.”_ _ _ _

____“Thank you.” D’artagnan said, before he’d really thought it through._ _ _ _

____“You’re very welcome.” Porthos grinned, stepping over the threshold and sliding the door shut behind him._ _ _ _

____D’artagnan sank back against the chair, wincing at the movement. Bright lights still seemed to be flickering beneath his eyes, and his mind felt strained, searching to piece together the late hours of the day. He wanted to rub his eyes, but the movement would cause that stabbing pain._ _ _ _

____“Here.” Said a voice, and D’artagnan jumped at the sudden impact of something light being thrown onto his lap. He glanced down and saw a packet of dafalgan._ _ _ _

____Athos was standing above him, a glass of water proffered and an ice pack in the other hand._ _ _ _

____“How did you do that so fast?” D’artagnan asked, wincing, “How was anywhere open this late?”_ _ _ _

____“Do you want the water or not?” Was Athos’s response, face unyielding and stern as he continued to hold the glass out towards him. He took it after a moment’s hesitation._ _ _ _

____“Well,” Aramis said, getting to his feet and clapping his hands together, “I’m off to bed. Quite enough excitement for one evening.”_ _ _ _

____“Porthos’s room is yours.” Athos informed D’artagnan._ _ _ _

____“Won’t he be needing it?” D’artagnan asked blankly,_ _ _ _

____“Oh, he won’t tonight.” Aramis grinned, clapping Porthos on the back, “His sleeping pattern has been wrecked recently.”_ _ _ _

____All things considered, D’artagnan thought, when he was back in that bed five minutes later; staring at the stained ceiling now veiled in darkness, he could certainly have been unluckier. That uncertainty was still laced in his chest like the tightly drawn strings of a shoe, and it was an uncertainty that was somehow mixed with a suspicion he couldn’t fully explain._ _ _ _

____Perhaps it was Aramis wearing sunglasses in the middle of the night, or the oddly persistent smell of dog in a seemingly dog-less flat. Or it was the way Athos’s touch had been far colder than the icepack now soothing his bruised skin._ _ _ _

____But, he reflected, attempting to move and giving it up at his ribs seared, he was alive._ _ _ _

____And he didn’t quite realise that within a forty metre radius, just how unique that made him.____

 _ _ _ _-____

 _ _ _ _The nightmares were there again that night; rushing images that Athos couldn’t quite remember, but ones that left him cold and unsettled nonetheless; skin prickling._ _ _ _

____He wasn’t sure why he could still sleep; but perhaps he wasn’t sleeping anyway. He always woke with tiredness still draped around him like a cloak; or an anchor that threatened to pull him downwards. He wondered if he could slip through the earth. He’d always been too scared to try._ _ _ _

____The sun was shining on the north of Paris again that morning, something that Aramis would not be pleased with whenever it was that he woke up._ _ _ _

____Porthos was in the living room, snoring loudly in the armchair. He was a light sleeper, but Athos’s feet were far past the point of making noise. He liked to walk heavily now and then, just to know that he still could._ _ _ _

____It was the same reason he opened the door to the balcony by hand, sliding it on heavy groves and stepping out in the morning light._ _ _ _

____The fresh air could still touch him; lighting along his skin, even if his hair remained still sometimes, as if he were a video paused now and then. He rested his hands against the railings, perhaps wishing more than feeling the cold touch of metal._ _ _ _

____It was odd to stand here; to look out at a city so changed from time. He supposed he couldn’t afford to feel uncomfortable to be in a building constructed long after he’d died; but it still felt akin to pushing off from the edge of an ice rink, and finding yourself alone and ready to fall at any time._ _ _ _

____A remnant of his dreams came back to him, a scrape of remembrance; of lips on his cheek and a laugh in his ear._ _ _ _

____He closed his eyes, and tried to drown out the sounds of the Paris he no longer knew; one alive with car horns and commuters and the thrum of the metro working about the city like the arteries of a heart. He wondered what a person could do when they felt lost in their own hometown._ _ _ _

____He remembered Aramis’s sceptical words from the night before. _A person- If you say so.__ _ _ _

____The apartment buzzer let out a high, tinny blast, and he jumped. From inside, there was a loud thump, he heard Porthos give a curse._ _ _ _

____“I hate Constance sometimes.” Porthos growled, as Athos stepped back into the apartment and towards the buzzer, hitting the admission button._ _ _ _

____“You need to get a normal sleep pattern back, anyway,” He told Porthos. He was met with a deal of muttering._ _ _ _

____Constance rapped at the door a few minutes later; her other hand, when Athos opened the door, revealed to be clutching a large black gym bag._ _ _ _

____“I haven’t got long,” She said by way of greeting, stepping past Athos and heading off in the direction of the kitchen, “I’m late already. And I’ve got to walk to the hospital today.”_ _ _ _

____“We appreciate this.” Athos told her, as she slammed the gym bag onto the countertop and unzipped it,_ _ _ _

____“Yes, well,” Constance said distractedly, extracting a pair of violet scrubs from the bag and continuing her search through the contents, “How else would you manage?”_ _ _ _

____“The headaches we must give you.” Porthos grinned,_ _ _ _

____“You have no idea.” Constance agreed, and at last she pulled free four bags of blood. “This is all I can get until Wednesday. I’m guessing he likes A positive?”_ _ _ _

____“As long as you haven’t been cutting it with Teisseire.” Aramis said from the door to his bedroom. He sent the sunbathed window a scowl as he made his way over, “You’re a blessing, Madame.”_ _ _ _

____“I know.” Constance agreed, holding the blood out in Aramis’s direction, and Athos caught the tired, amused smile that pulled at her lips for a brief moment._ _ _ _

____There was a rustle of movement to Athos’s right, and he turned to see D’artagnan; standing in the doorway to Porthos’s room. He looked at Constance, whose outstretched hand was offering Aramis four bags of dark, very real, and very stolen blood._ _ _ _

____There was a brief, mildly awkward pause._ _ _ _

____“What the hell?” D’artagnan finally broke the silence, looking between them all with that same mistrust and bewilderment that had lined his features last night. It was mixed with something else now, a distinct alarm was claiming his expression, which Athos could not entirely blame him for._ _ _ _

____Silence feel again, and they all looked between one another. The oven clock happily announced eight o’clock._ _ _ _

____“I have nothing,” Aramis said after a moment, looking over at Athos and shrugging elaborately._ _ _ _

____“D’artagnan-” Athos began, not entirely aware of how he was going to finish, but it didn’t matter. D’artagnan had only frozen for a moment, but a second later he had begun to  
move. _ _ _ _

____“I’m leaving,” He muttered, and with that, he stalked past Athos and threw open the front door. A second later his feet were sounding hurried on the stairs; echoing throughout the dank stairwell. He might have noticed he had brushed _through_ Athos if he had been concentrating. _ _ _ _

____The door slammed behind him; echoing about the sparsely furnished room._ _ _ _

____“That went well.” Porthos said cheerfully._ _ _ _

____“Should we be worried about him?” Constance asked, peering at the door D’artagnan had vanished through,_ _ _ _

____“Nah, he’s harmless.” Porthos replied with a dismissive wave of his hand._ _ _ _

____“But we might be worried _for_ him.” Athos countered, frowning._ _ _ _


	2. Boulevard de Ménilmontant; Père Lachaise; Rue Petit

He’d made it to Père Lachaise before he was sure he would be sick from the pain of his ribs. He found a dingy toilet at the metro station and pressed his fingers hard against the graffitied stall wall. And then he’d staggered out to the square where boulevards and avenues crossed; their tall old buildings rising high around him. 

He was sitting now at a brasserie on the edge of the square; shaded by a striped awning from the sky that seemed so much larger away from the narrow roads of the north of the city. He was a euro short for the espresso he’d bought, and he was hoping he could make an exit before the waiter noticed. 

He watched a father lead his son down the escalator to the metro line, and felt a lurch in his chest that had nothing to do with bruised ribs.

“You look like a man who could do with more than just one of those.” A voice said, and he looked round to see a woman standing at the other side of the small round table, wearing a large sunhat and a smirk. Her eyes flicked down to the espresso by his elbow. 

D’artagnan shrugged, watching her closely. She stirred something in his mind, but it was like trying to grab something slippery underwater. 

She was standing in front of the sun, and when she settled in the chair beside him he was momentarily blinded. 

“What brings you to Paris?” She asked, and her smile was enticing, he thought mildly. The kind that seemed to share a secret with only him.

“How do you know I’m not from Paris?” He asked, an edge of confrontation in his tone. 

She smirked further at that, and ordered two espressos from the waiter as he passed by.

“You have that look about you.” She said, turning back to him, “It’s a lost, slightly dazed look.”

“Maybe that’s just the kind of day I’m having.” D’artagnan replied. It was unsettling, he thought absently, the way she stared at his face; as if she were assessing him. It was almost predatory, and something about her set him on his guard. 

“Maybe it is.” She agreed. She was silent for a moment, sitting back in her chair and further into the shade of the awning. People walking by stared at her, he noticed. But people stared a lot in Paris. 

“You needn’t feel lost, though,” She spoke again, as the waiter deposited the two espressos and the cheque on the table. “You can have friends here if you want.”

“Like you?” He asked.

“Like me.” 

“You’re Parisian?”

“Since longer than I can remember,” She smiled again, that secret smile, and he wasn’t sure he was included in the joke this time. With a single, fluid motion, she picked up the cup of espresso and drained it. Then she pulled the napkin underneath the saucer towards her, and drew a pen from the handbag slung across her shoulder. 

“If you ever want a friend in Paris,” She said, pen moving over the paper napkin, “Call this number.” She capped the pen and pushed the napkin towards him, and then, with the same grace, she got to her feet and held out a hand.

“It was _fascinating_ meeting you-” She told him as he took the hand and shook it, and her eyebrow raised in expectation,

“D’artagnan,” He supplied without much thought, and then she’d given him another smirk, released his hand, and then she was gone; swallowed up by the crowd of tourists and locals.

It was about five minutes later he realised she had not told him her name.

Or paid for the coffee.

\- 

Attempting to follow D’artagnan had not been particularly successful, Athos had found.

Walking idly about was easy; his mind could relax (as much as it ever could do, anyway) and he could focus on being solid enough to not traumatize the crush of Paris. 

But tailing someone was a lot harder, and perhaps it was being near the cemetery, but when he’d followed D’artagnan up the steps towards the square, he’d kind of _fizzled_ , and momentarily slipped into nothingness. 

It happened now and then. But still, it was frustrating. 

He’d sat patiently, not particularly enamoured of being a nonentity floating on the metro steps as people rushed through him and he was left alone with no limbs, or movements, but the same reeling mass of thoughts that he was sure would haunt him forever. Ironically. 

By the time he’d popped back into technical existence, he’d lost D’artagnan in the crowds that never left this area of Paris. 

He couldn’t have said why he was so invested in following him, it was some warped feeling of responsibility perhaps. And random attacks _did_ happen, and they knew the patterns of it, but sometimes that creeping feeling of paranoia didn’t allow him to consider anything random. 

He sat in the shade of the trees that lined the middle of the boulevard for a time; resting on the metal fence that jutted from the pavement. 

And then, quite by chance, he spotted D’artagnan’s dark head amongst a throng of people, moving faster than bruised ribs should allow, and looking over his shoulder in a manner that was either guilty or scared.

He sprung off the fence and dashed across the road after him. The driver of the car he nearly ran into was certainly very alarmed.

D’artagnan followed the outer wall of the cemetery down towards its western entrance, and then, as if hearing Athos’s mental plea to not turn left and into the cemetery, he did exactly that. 

“D’artagnan!” 

He spun round at the sound of his name, and Athos felt momentarily guilty. He looked exhausted; face paled with what was surely pain. Maybe they should have taken him to the hospital. He’d been afraid; afraid they’d been too late in that alleyway, and really he’d been afraid for a very long time.

D’artagnan hovered there a moment, and then he turned on his heel and started to run. 

Athos considered his fleeing back for a moment, and then he closed his eyes briefly and ran through the archway and into the sprawling city of graves. 

The voices sprung up instantly, as if those old cemetery walls had been all that had been shielding him from them. And perhaps they were. Voices of the dead whispered in his ears, and he couldn’t help but listen. The dead told him their secrets, shouted and spoke in hushed tones or sang in playful voices. He wondered if they would regard with scorn   
the way his feet hit against the cobbles with loud purpose. 

He shouldn’t have been too scared, not really. D’artagnan’s ribs allowed him brisk movement for only so long. He caught up with him beside the statue of an angel, holding an epitaph to a woman who had died in 1956. She whispered to Athos that she missed the turmoil of the world back then. She felt it had been simpler. Athos couldn’t say he felt it was true. 

“Stay away from me.” D’artagnan gasped, a hand pressed gingerly against his torso.

“I apologise.” Athos said, taking a step back. He was panting from habit, he realised. He abruptly stopped, “I just wanted to say that if you ever feel you need to, you’re welcome   
to stay with us.”

“Why the hell would I want to?” D’artagnan demanded, and Athos had to hand him that. He had a pretty good idea of what they had presented themselves to be.

“I’m not sure,” He agreed, “But whatever you may think us to be, we will ensure your safety.” 

“I think you need to stop following me now.” 

“Of course.” 

And he could do little but stay there, in amongst the whispering graves, as he watched D’artagnan back away and head towards the cemetery exit; back into the sprawling chaos of the city; his footsteps hurried.

“Well done.” Athos told himself, and the graves seemed to snicker in response.

\- 

Aramis spent the afternoon chain smoking on the roof.

It was secluded enough; a vast, flat expanse on the sixth floor beneath the shade of a beach umbrella. When he'd first come up here he’d half hoped he could see the Eiffel Tower, or Sacré Cœur, or any landmark that fully convinced him he was still in Paris. But the buildings around were too high, and any famous construction was concealed by the ever growing stretch of sprawling city.

He thought Paris had changed for the better; that the world had changed for the better. But sometimes, it was awfully hard to keep that thought; as if it were a small flame he was shielding in a gale. 

He breathed out the smoke, and thought that, sometimes, not being able to die really did have some benefits.

“I thought I’d find you up here.” 

Porthos’s voice interrupted his melancholy, and a moment later he dropped to the floor beside Aramis; out of the shade of the umbrella, and into the dying light of the day. 

“I’m not the unpredictable type.” Aramis agreed. 

“Athos is gone again.” Porthos told him, easing back onto his elbows with a heavy sigh, “I feel we should be more worried about him, you know.” 

“Worrying about Athos is already 90% of my mind’s workings.” Aramis responded, “Take it to 100% and I’ll never sleep again.” 

“Do you think it was her?” Porthos asked. He looked across at Aramis, uncharacteristic grimness on his face. Aramis often forgot how young Porthos was. But then, everyone seemed young to him now.

“I don’t know.” He replied with a sigh that came furled with cigarette smoke. The last thing he wanted was to say yes, and so he didn’t say it. But he’d seen her in that alleyway before she’d disappeared, running off into the night. The dim streetlights hadn’t disguised her dark hair; or the angled lines of her face when she’d glanced back at them. 

Perhaps Porthos hadn’t seen, but Aramis had. After all these years, he couldn’t have said why she was here now; streets away from this battered, empty apartment that had somehow become a fortress. 

“What do we do?” Porthos asked, and Aramis didn’t know how to answer him.

He listened to the sounds of the city thrown into dusk instead.

A street sweeper was moving down the road below; whirring and gushing over the sound of traffic. A train swept by, rattling and clunking; and raised voices were coming from the café around the corner. It was a restless city, Paris. It never slept. 

He worked a hand through his hair; and he sighed again. The blood Constance had brought was still coursing, stale and metallic through him; setting a thick feeling at the back of his throat. It set him on edge.

“Do you know I miss getting drunk?” He finally responded, watching the sky leak with soft purple. Over towards the west, the clouds were ablaze with orange. 

“You’ve no idea.” Porthos agreed. 

They fell silent a moment, apparently reflecting on forgotten nights.

“You know,” Aramis said at last, and sent Porthos a carefully controlled expression, “There’s nothing to say we can’t _try_.” 

“Misplaced optimism,” Porthos grinned, hitting his leg with a hand, “That’s what I like to hear.”

\- 

He hadn’t meant to stay at Père Lachaise as long as he had. But he hadn’t quite been able to bring himself to leave; and he’d wondered further into that vast expanse of tombstones and steles and wondered why he wasn’t among them; a body in the cold ground, his spirit gone and silent and _dead_. He’d looked at the lipstick kisses pressed to metro tickets, slipped over the glass that barricaded Oscar Wilde’s grave, and wondered if maybe it was because there was no one to miss him; no one to leave flowers or hurriedly kissed café napkins.

He took the metro back to Ourcq, crammed with the late night commuters, just to spite that feeling. 

He hadn’t quite expected to find Aramis and Porthos sprawled out on the battered carpet of the living room when he let himself into the apartment; surrounded by a rather staggering amount of Barcardi bottles. Aramis had his sunglasses on again, as if the bare bulb above them were a struggle to look at.

“This doesn’t look like household chores.” Athos observed, cocking an eyebrow.

“We did the hoovering _ages_ ago.” Porthos informed him, waving a hand in dismissal. 

Athos took in the carpet, which still appeared victimized by the crisps Porthos had devoured a few days ago; and was strewn, quite clearly to Athos’s eye, with glints of short, coarse hair.

“So I see.” 

“It’s your turn to wash up, anyway,” Aramis told him, before belching rather impressively. 

“I thought we’d agreed that after each full moon we all clean up immediately.” 

“It’s not like I tore _this_ place up.” Porthos said, sounding affronted, and Athos couldn’t quite help snapping at that,

“There’s quite literally _werewolf hair on the carpet._ ” 

“Easy,” Aramis sighed, sitting up and waving his hands in a placating gesture as Porthos let out a low growl, “We’ll tidy tomorrow. Happy?”

Athos exhaled heavily, heading towards the kitchen. He wished he could eat cereal; it was precisely what he felt like doing right now. 

“Why are you drinking?” He asked after a while, resting his elbows on the counter that separated him from the rest of the room. 

“Call it a test.” Aramis replied, “And a woefully failed one, for me. Do you feel anything, Porthos?”

“Annoyance.” Came the muttered response. 

“What a waste of thirty euros.” Aramis concluded wistfully, before staggering to his feet. Barcardi bottles knocked against his feet and clunked over on their sides, “Well, I’m going out for a smoke.” 

Athos considered him, pausing as he pulled that strength he ignored so often forwards; a warm heat stealing suddenly over him, and a moment later the vacuum cleaner shot from its cupboard and reeled into Aramis’s path. It hit him on the shin and he swore loudly.

“Since you’re up,” Athos commented, failing at hiding his smirk.

“Of course,” Aramis remarked, looking at him with apparent anguish as Porthos chuckled, “You have no denial about being dead when it comes to _chores_.” 

The buzzer interrupted him; setting a tinny blare about the room, and from some unknowable instinct, Athos stiffened. 

“We’re not expecting Constance, are we?” Porthos asked frowning.

The buzzer rang out again; drawn out and urgent, and before any of them could speak, Aramis had walked over and hit the admission button.

“What are you _doing_?” Athos queried hoarsely, and Aramis shrugged.

“We’ll find out soon enough.” 

Athos stood there a moment, possibilities throwing themselves about his mind, and then he crossed to the front door and threw it open. Aramis might have called his name, but he was hurrying down the stairs; the comparative dark of the apartment making his eyes sting now he was faced with the harsh fluorescent lighting of the stairwell; that seemed to bounce off the pale green rosin of the steps and the white walls; flashing against the windows that looked out onto the street swept in darkness outside. 

He nearly crashed with the figure he met on the third floor, as hard as he was focusing on being a solid entity.

D’artagnan staggered backwards before he recognised him, gasping and clutching at his chest, and Athos gripped his arms, forcing him upright,

“What is it?” He asked sharply, looking him over, for blood, bruises, or god forbid those tell-tale twin puncture wounds; a twisted kiss on skin. 

D’artagnan was wheezing; pushing hard against Athos’s hands in his attempt to double over; gritting his teeth in apparent agony. Sweat was clinging to his skin; hair pasted to his neck and temples.

“You said I could come to you.” He said, tones grated and raw, “I don’t know why I did, but I-” 

“Are you being followed?” Athos asked curtly.

D’artagnan met his eye, unflinching as his chest heaved. He nodded. 

Athos hauled him upright again as he sank down, turning and gripping him tighter as he began to guide him up the flight of stairs. D’artagnan was staggering; his weight thrown on him, hands scrabbling at the metal banister for some kind of purchase.

Athos called for Porthos on the fourth floor, when his strength began to flicker like a candle exposed to a breeze, and the taller man ran out, lugging D’artagnan up the remaining steps towards the apartment that sometimes felt like the only safe place in Paris.

“What’s happening?” Porthos growled as he deposited D’artagnan in the armchair. He sank into it, coughing, wincing as he curled forwards,

“He’s being followed.” Athos said. He shut and bolted the door, sinking against it. He felt drained, wanting for the first time in a long while to simply sink into that un-personified nothingness. He supposed he hadn’t applied that kind of constant, solid strength in a while. He’d slipped out of practice. 

“By who?” Aramis asked, sounding mildly interested. 

“I didn’t know her,” D’artagnan gasped, leaning back in the chair and grimacing, and at a suggesting nod from Athos, Aramis went towards the freezer to retrieve the ice pack. 

“ _Her_?” Porthos questioned, shooting a quick look at Athos. 

“I was walking back to my hostel,” D’artagnan said; face contorted still as he took the ice pack Aramis was holding out to him, “Rue Julien Lacroix. I saw the figure of a woman at the other end of the street, and I got this feeling, and I don’t know I panicked. Flagged down a taxi and I came here.”

“Would you say it was the same person who attacked you last night?” Athos asked, and D’artagnan looked round, as if he had forgotten he was there. He couldn’t say whether that effect was a result of being dead, or it was simply that habit of standing in the darker corners, arms folded and speaking quietly. 

“I don’t know.” D’artagnan said, “Why would it be? But that’s the second time in twenty four hours. Who’s that unlucky?”

Athos flicked a look at Porthos, who was staring at D’artagnan; expression split between open derision, and something like envy. 

“It sounds like them, doesn’t it?” Aramis mused softly, running a palm against the hair on his chin, “Stalking a victim; not settling for failure.”

“Smarted pride, for sure.” Porthos agreed.

“‘Them?’” D’artagnan repeated blankly. He looked between them, bewilderment etched about his young face, and Athos felt an odd lurch of pity for him, “What’s going on? What do you know?” He sent a look back at Athos, “Why did you tell me I’d be safe here? Safe from _what_?”

Athos looked over at Porthos, who quirked an eyebrow and spread his arms out as if to suggest submission. But Athos shook his head,

“Telling you what we know will only endanger you further. I do not think you’re safe whilst you’re in Paris. You should leave at the next opportunity. We can take you to Gare du Nord in the morning.”

“I don’t want to leave,” D’artagnan snapped, and he clambered to his feet; movements hindered by pain, “I want to know what’s going on!”

“Why not tell him, Athos?” Aramis asked lightly, eyes on D’artagnan, “Either he won’t believe us, or we might just save his life. We lose nothing.”

“It is not our position to reveal anything, as you know.” Athos told him firmly. And that might have been half of the reason he wouldn’t talk, but the rest of it was wanting to keep that perplexed look on D’artagnan’s face; to send him away without answers. So that he could continue; would be allowed to look back, and not feel the weight that he himself had felt since 1929. 

“Treville won’t mind,” Aramis said dismissively, waving a hand, “And neither will Louis, I’m sure.” He settled into one of the plastic chairs they’d left inside since last night. “Richelieu will, of course. But I can’t say that irks me too much.” 

“What do you think, Porthos?” Athos asked, eyes considering Aramis still.

“I say tell him.” Porthos said, and Athos looked over at him at that. Porthos’s dark eyes were on his as he outnumbered him, and Athos resigned himself to conceding with that dreaded scraping of reluctance he often felt when Aramis and Porthos pulled him along in one thing or another. “It can’t hurt.”

“I seem to recall being told that before.” Athos reflected, and Porthos sent him a rueful smile.

“Tell me what?” D’artagnan seemed unimpressed with the quibbling. 

“Telling is one thing,” Aramis considered, and Athos should have realised theatrics would feature with Aramis steering things, “But showing is perhaps a little more convincing.”

Athos rolled his eyes as Aramis disentangled himself from the seat, pulling his sunglasses from his face as he moved over to where D’artagnan was standing; pausing just before him and smiling pleasantly at him.

A second later, his face changed. Brown eyes filled into black voids; his brow furrowed, and he spread his lips open to sneer; through jagged incisors. 

D’artagnan gave a sharp yell and staggered backwards; sprawling backwards into the armchair. And Aramis’s face set itself to normal; human features spreading back like leaking water.

“Any questions?” Armais asked, as if he’d just explained fractions to him.

But D’artagnan simply looked at him in horror; face frozen. Athos didn’t know if it was a good sign or not that he was not yet heading for the exit. Alternatively, it was possible a heart attack was imminent.

“What was that?” D’artagnan eventually croaked. He hadn’t moved; had stayed where he’d collapsed, rigid, into the old armchair. 

Aramis looked amused at the phrasing, and settled the sunglasses back across his eyes once more. 

“It’s hard to locate the exact term,” He mused, “But I suppose ‘vampire’ is the easiest concept to grasp.” 

“Vampire?” Athos was almost impressed D’artagnan could load a single word with such a heavy quantities of disbelief, alarm and utter bewilderment. 

“Precisely.” Aramis smiled, “Born 1819. Died in slightly unfortunate circumstances on a street barricade in 1848.” He rummaged in a pocket and drew out a cigarette, before saying in a decidedly unenthusiastic tone, “Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité.” 

“Ou la mort.” Porthos finished with a snort. 

“You’re dead?” D’artagnan’s face was perfectly still now; dark eyes focused on Aramis with an almost fevered kind of desperation. 

“If you impaled me right now it would be nothing but a slight inconvenience.” Aramis confirmed. 

“But how are you…” D’artagnan trailed off, “Oh my god,” He said, setting hands to long hair, “I saw _teeth_ ,” And then he wrenched himself from whatever realisation had spilled across his mind, expression changing as he shook his head. He staggered to his feet, and Athos foresaw his leaving; running down those rosin steps despite the pain in his chest, and he felt a curious twinge of disappointment. But D’artagnan didn’t move; remained standing before the armchair; eyes trained on Aramis with hostility. 

“Do you hurt people?” He asked.

Aramis looked at him, offhand nature slipping slightly, as if it were a mask that he’d fumbled on his long fingers.

“I used to.” He finally said, expressionless. 

“No, but-” D’artagnan raised his hands to his head, raking fingers through his hair as if it would plant him somewhere logical; somewhere where his every sense wasn’t showing him that there was only one possibility, and that was that Aramis was telling him the truth. “How is this even _possible?_ ”

“I wasn’t exactly handed a rulebook.” Aramis told him, lighting the cigarette with a flourish of his hand. “But there’s about 10,000 of us here in Paris.” 

“ _10,000-_ ”

“The point is,” Athos said, “It’s never going to be amicable. Vampires are creatures designed to kill. They drink blood to survive. And having 10,000 of them in a city full of people gets-” He trailed off to think of a decent word, but in the end simply settled for, “Nasty.” 

“What are you saying?” D’artagnan asked; no trace of aggression about the question. He simply looked hopelessly lost. And no matter how much he might be grappling with it, it was hard to explain away the way Aramis’s face had turned. 

“You may not have seen her properly,” Athos began, “But we’re fairly certain the woman who attacked you last night was a vampire. Which would explain why she was down that street this evening. Vampires have a habit of stalking appointed prey somewhat excessively.” 

“Would I have become a va…one of them?” D’artagnan asked, like a man who had recently learned a new language and was stringing words together he didn’t quite yet know the meaning of. 

“Only if she’d wanted you to be.” Porthos supplied darkly. 

“This doesn’t make any _sense_ -”

“Welcome to our world.” Aramis said brightly.

D’artagnan looked between them all; arms limp at his side, expression despairing, and perhaps hoping that they were just simply rather eccentric people who were winding him up.

“I don’t believe you.” He murmured.

“I’m pretty sure you do.” Aramis grinned, breathing out a cloud of smoke. “But you’re welcome to leave. Gare du Nord is, what, half an hour’s walk away?” He looked over at Porthos, who gave a shrug of concurrence, “Assuming you make it, of course.” 

A silence settled after that statement, and a minute stretched out; punctured by the noise outside the apartment; the whir of car tyres on road; the boom of distant club music, and the far off howl of a siren. And D’artagnan stayed rooted to the shabby carpet.

“You say you don’t hurt people,” He said at last; voice hesitant, “Then how do you survive?”

“He’s quick.” Aramis grinned, “That’s nice.”

“Aramis lives off bagged blood from the hospital.” Athos supplied, shifting in his spot by the door. Wearily, he supposed he should supply more information. “We’re part of the supernatural population that act as vigilantes. To prevent nasty situations.” 

“Like?”

“Like other people being bitten and turned, or mauled to death in the streets.” Aramis said abruptly. 

“People normally don’t notice anyway,” Porthos said, bitterness laced in his voice. “The ones that we don’t get too in time.”

“Deaths are usually low profile,” Athos told D’artagnan, looking up to study the bare light bulb that hung in the centre of the room, “Disappearances the authorities don’t care about. Of course, every now and then something larger slips through the cracks. No doubt you heard about those three businessmen killed in a hotel in Lyon last month?” 

“The Rhône-Alpes branch were not pleased.” Aramis reflected. 

D’artagnan sat down again. 

“You’re not going to be sick, are you?” Aramis inquired, “That’s what happened the last time something like this conversation took place.” And Athos held a quick second of silence for the woefully ignored nature of the guidelines he had thought they had been operating under for so long.

“So,” D’artagnan said after a time, face contorted with the effort of understanding as he sent Porthos and Athos a look, “You’re all vampires?”

“ _Ah_.” Aramis said, looking greatly amused. He looked at Porthos and Athos pointedly. 

“I’m a ghost.” Athos supplied helpfully.

“Werewolf.” Porthos finished.


	3. Rue Petit; La Rhumerie

The sun rose with the rest of the city the next morning; creeping up past the rooftops to lay soft light on their leaden tiles and orange chimneys. It shone on the lake in the Luxembourg Gardens, and made the metro tracks that ran above the ground gleam as if they were made from silver. 

D’artagnan had fallen asleep on the armchair when he’d temporarily run out of questions; somewhere in the region of four o’clock, as the dark blue sky began to be tainted by the periwinkle shade of oncoming dawn. 

Porthos wasn’t sure if D’artagnan trusted them; and he’d have considered him wise if he hadn’t. They were, after all, three strangers in Paris; explaining something to him that every part of his consciousness must be telling him was false; was simply some convoluted trick on his mind. 

He’d half expected him to have gone when he emerged from his own room; stumbling out into the living room that was stained in early morning sunshine. But he was still slumped there; legs spread out before him as he slept. Porthos yawned. The full moon had been three nights ago; but he always felt on edge; as if the moon sent a rash over his skin, tugging at his nerves; even when it had finally dipped below the horizon cluttered with haphazard rooftops and battered aerials. 

Athos was up already; pouring hot water into four mugs by the sink; tea bags draped into them. It was a habit of his, and Porthos felt that he too would have some difficulty in adjusting to never being able to eat or drink anything ever again. 

“I’m headed over to Saint-Germain later.” Athos told him, looking up as he set the kettle back on its stand, “We need to update Treville.” 

“I’ll come with you.” Porthos yawned, pitching his weight down onto the nearest white plastic chair. It creaked ominously at the sudden onslaught. “I fancy being shouted at.”

“If you’re sure,” Athos said in that mild tone of his, that always seemed to hold some thought simmering beneath it, “I may end up having to report at Palais Royal.”

“Did someone say hell?” Aramis’s voice came drifting from the next room and his hand clapped down on Porthos’s shoulder a moment later. It had required some getting used to, Porthos thought; being touched by a vampire. Like treading into a cold sea.

“You’re very welcome to remain here.” Athos said lightly, and he navigated the clutter of chairs to hand two cups of tea to them; a galette biscuit balanced on the edge of each rim. Porthos supposed he would wait until Athos was not around before he consumed the rest of the packet. Full moons set him hungry for days. 

“No-one goes to Palais Royal alone.” He grumbled, taking his mug. His fingers hit against Athos’s; the touch of ice cold skin setting goose pimples along his arms. “That place is full of snakes.”

“Where?” Asked a husky voice, and the three of them looked over to the armchair where D’artagnan had been sleeping.

He was sitting up, leaning forwards as he blinked sleep from his eyes, and the look he set at them unnerved Porthos slightly. It was a kind of determination that was lacing his dark eyes; a determination to not miss anything, bordering on a suspicion. But there was an eagerness there as well. 

“The Palais Royal.” Aramis supplied through a mouthful of galette. 

“I suppose we aren’t talking about the Palais I’m familiar with?” D’artaganan questioned tiredly.

“No.” Porthos said helpfully, grinning. 

“Alongside the Constitutional Council and the Council of State is the King’s Council for the Undead.” Athos explained, and Porthos shot Aramis a look at the end title. Aramis’s lips puckered in annoyance. 

“A king?” D’artaganan repeated blankly, “You have a king?”

“1789 didn’t go quite the same for us.” Porthos snorted, “Aramis still begrudges it.” 

“We tried democracy for a time,” Athos added from the kitchen, “It was messy.” 

D’artagnan looked at them all with some kind of struggle warring behind his eyes.

“Can I come?” He finally asked.

“No.” They all said immediately, and Porthos was rather glad to witness the first time they had all so resolutely agreed on something in a decade or so.

D’artagnan, however, did not seem to like this unanimous agreement. 

“You dumped this on me,” He said fiercely, as Athos headed back towards their cluster of chairs, “You can’t just tell me all of this and just expect me to go _away._ ” 

“You cannot expect to suddenly be included just because you’re aware of supernatural existence,” Athos said in a tired voice, holding out a cup of tea towards D’artagnan. He simply looked at him; that defiant expression still in his eyes, and said nothing. 

“We need to explain this situation first,” Aramis added, as if he were consoling him, “We’re technically not supposed to have told you anything without approval from a higher power.”

D’artagnan sank back in the armchair, and Athos, after hesitation, set the tea on the floor by his foot. D’artagnan seemed shell-shocked still; grappling with what they’d told him, as if searching for oxygen, or he was sinking far below a surface. Which in a way, Porthos thought, he was. 

“How are your ribs?” Aramis asked him, and he gave a kind of half shrug. Porthos noted the stiffness of his posture; how precariously he was holding his upper body.

“Maybe we should ask Constance to take a look.” He suggested. 

“You met her spectacularly briefly yesterday.” Aramis informed D’artagnan, “She works most conveniently at Saint-Louis.” 

“Is she a-?”

“Perfectly standard human? Why, yes, she is.”

“Call her,” Porthos suggested to Aramis, who sent him a quizzical look, “If she can take a half hour break, she can answer questions whilst we deal with Treville.” 

“Only half an hour for questions?” D’artagnan commented, finally leaning down for his tea, and wincing from the movement. He looked mildly amused, however, and Porthos allowed himself the sudden rush of liking for him.

-

La Rhumerie was an unassuming stretch of warm ochre awning and wicker tables and chairs along the Boulevard Saint-Germain. A small step raised the café from the pavement around it; clustered with tourists and buskers and dogs running ahead of their owners.

The woman D’artagnan had seen so fleetingly met them outside, leaning against one of the tree planted inside a circle of iron grills. She looked impatient and put out, hands tugging at violet scrubs.

“I’ve got twenty three minutes.” She informed them when they were within earshot. “I’m rushed off my feet today.”

“We’ll be twelve at most.” Aramis informed her gallantly, and she ignored him. 

“This is D’artagnan,” Porthos grinned, clapping him on the shoulder. He winced at the movement. “D’artagnan, Constance Bonacieux. D’artagnan’s bruised his ribs and stumbled upon a few secrets of ours.”

“That we’re now apparently sharing with random members of the general public.” Athos ended, eyes fixed on the middle distance and face lined with disapproval once more. 

“I wondered where he’d come from.” Constance said, turning eyes on D’artagnan. She looked tired, he thought distantly. “Come on then.”

“Wonderful,” Aramis said brightly, “We’ll be in the back.”

D’artagnan watched the three of them head round the side of the café as Constance led the way through the front door. 

She selected a seat by the long glass windows that were pushed open; settling down and looking at him expectantly.

“Where are they going?” He asked her immediately, setting himself down in the seat opposite her. The movement hurt.

“To see Treville.” She replied. She was studying him, as if appraising him, and he wasn’t sure why he suddenly felt so uncomfortable.

“Who is Treville?” He asked through a flicker of frustration. The ignorance and confusion he felt ebbed at him like rough waves. 

Constance reached for the menu, sighing. The noise danced in her throat, and was lost as a car whirred past, and the nearby zebra crossing began to beep. 

“He’s the head of the branch that those three belong to.” She finally said. “The branch that aims to uphold order here in Paris. Are you getting anything?”

“I have no money on me.” He admitted, and she rolled her eyes.

“I’m not surprised if you’re in with those lot.” She muttered, rooting about in a pocket before dissecting a few euros. “Coffee?”

D’artagnan was immediately drawn back to the espressos with the woman back at Père Lachaise, and merely nodded.

“What kind of order do they uphold?” He asked, and the conversation halted as the waitress came over to take their order. It was odd, to feel that need for secrecy; this grappling need he had to understand so much, and his total inability to simply walk away. 

“They try and seek out new members before they can hurt themselves,” Constance told him, sitting back in her chair, “Or others. And they have to deal with it when that doesn’t work. Bruised ribs, did Porthos say?”

“Yes.”

“There’s not much you can do about that, I’m afraid. Rest and breathing exercises.” She quirked an eyebrow in his direction, “And I feel you’re haven’t been resting.”

“Athos got me an ice pack.” D’artagnan responded, and he wasn’t too sure why he felt defensive over her doubt of the care he was receiving from the three people who’d come so dramatically into his life.

Constance looked somewhere between exasperated and amused.

“You’ll want to be careful, D’artagnan.” She eventually said, when the waitress had returned with their coffees. “It doesn’t get safer just because you know what’s out there. And being around those three,” She gestured towards where the cryptic, impenetrable back room lay, “Is probably the most dangerous place you could be.” 

He met her eyes for a time; taking in the genuine concern that was streaked there like the flecks of grey that marbled across her irises. She was pretty, he distantly realised; with a fierceness that was strung about her features like a perfume. He felt his eyes flick down to her lips. 

“Thank you for your warning.” He told her. “But I don’t think I can walk away from all of this.” 

“No,” She said, and he watched her lips quirk into something like a pained smile, “I didn’t think you’d be the type who would.”

-

Treville hadn’t been happy, but then, Aramis mused, he never particularly was.

After forty years or so of knowing one another, he’d grown used to being shouted at; or reprimanded. Most of the time, he was fairly sure it was a kind of fatherly bluster. He  
supposed he was actually rather fond of it. 

“Was it even _necessary_ ,” Treville barked now, standing with fists knuckled against the fake marble surface of the café table. He was looking between the three of them, his fierce scowl puckering the skin between his brows,

“Not really.” Athos admitted from where he was standing in the corner of the room. 

The back room of La Rhumerie was much the same as the front. The place was a mass of orange and warm hues; and clusters of wicker chairs crammed between tables. There was a strong aroma of coffee coming from the bar; and the air was filled with the whir of a coffee machine and the buzz of voices from next door.

This room was empty despite the four of them today, and by consequence Treville had moved their conversation here amongst the chairs and tables, as opposed to the small study that lay behind a closed door past the bar. Aramis was rather glad of it. Things had a higher capacity to go flying in confined spaces, and he wasn’t overly fond of the idea of being hit by an airborne stapler again.

“We felt we should tell him,” He explained, setting down the menu on which he had been examining a Blood Mojito. “Have you considered lowering your prices? I feel six euros is rather steep for O positive.” 

“This is no game, Aramis.” Treville snapped, turning his eyes on him alone now. “What were you all thinking?”

“We wanted to protect him,” Porthos said, “He’d have found out sooner or later with a vampire stalking him.” 

“Best he found out before he was faced with imminent death.” Aramis agreed.

“Who is this vampire?” Treville retorted, latching onto Porthos’s comment, “Shouldn’t she be your priority?”

“We might know who-” Aramis began, but Athos cut him off,

“We’re looking into it.” He said curtly, and Aramis resisted the temptation to look over at him. He schooled his face to a blank expression, despite the rush of cool exasperation that stole over him. 

“You’d better get a damn move on about it.” Aramis was sure that Treville probably growled his words a fair amount before he became a werewolf, but his current undead status certainly leant something towards its effect. 

“Shall we report to the court?” Athos inquired, and Treville shook his head, stepping back from the table. Aramis felt the danger passing,

“No. Although I’m tempted to let Richlieu deal with you, we’ll keep this between ourselves for now. Keep an eye on the boy, and find out who’s after him.”

“She might stop now he’s with us.” Porthos suggested, sounding far from convinced.

“I feel we’re not lucky enough for that.” Athos mused coolly. 

“How about a Daiquiri with a dash of A positive, Treville?” Aramis asked.

The laminated menu ended up being flung in his direction.

-

“Why did you say that?” Aramis asked Athos in a low tone once they had stepped out onto Rue de l’Euchadé. The mid-morning sun was not quite so powerful here; filtering down to the narrow road through the tall buildings either side; windows thrown open to catch a breeze that did not exist. Aramis was glad of it; the sun set an uncomfortable prickliness about him, like he’d rubbed poison ivy on his skin.

“Do what?” Athos replied. He spoke coolly and Aramis allowed Porthos to go ahead before he cut across Athos’s path. It was a token to how that consuming renunciation so overwhelmed Athos that he did not step through him, and Aramis suddenly felt sickeningly guilty at it. But he continued none the less.

“You cut me off. Before I could tell Treville who attacked D’artagnan.” 

Athos was not meeting his eyes, instead fixing his gaze stonily at where the small road joined the vast expanse of boulevard; rows of high buildings streaming off from it like veins. 

“I saw her, Athos.” 

His tone was aimed at calming, and he raised a hand to touch Athos’s arm. His palm had just met the fabric of his shirt before Athos moved away, pushing past him and after Porthos,

“We’ll tell Treville when we know for sure.” He said curtly,

“We _do_ know for sure-”

Athos turned about, stopping Aramis in his tracks as he came face to face with him. But his expression was impassive as ever, eyes unreadable as he fixed Aramis with a glance,

“Let me have this time.” He said, and Aramis did not know how to refuse him, despite every nerve of him that was pounding the knowledge that this was a bad idea about his body as if it were blood.

“Ok.” Was all he could say, and he hated himself for it. 

D’artagnan was already waiting on the pavement outside the café, shifting restlessly. He all but leapt forwards when he spotted them,

“Constance has left then, has she?” Porthos commented, as Aramis shifted his sunglasses back across his eyes. The spindling leaves on the tree now above them did little to filter out the sun that was climbing towards its zenith. “I hope you gave her time to breathe.”

“What did Treville say?” D’artagnan asked,

“We’re to keep an eye on you,” Athos told him. “Until we can ensure your safety.” 

“Safety?” D’artagnan repeated, and a flicker of something ran across his face; something like frustration, “I’m not going to be shut away in your flat, am I?”

“What’s wrong with our flat?” Aramis asked, placing a hand on his chest as if wounded.

“Yeah,” Porthos took up, “It’s patchy, but what are you saying?” 

“You could help us, you know.”

Athos said the words quietly, but they carried all the same, on that busy boulevard in the heart of a city far older than Aramis ever would be.

“Help you?” D’artagnan repeated, and there was a light beginning to glint in his dark eyes; one Aramis knew; he’d seen it a thousand times stamped across the faces of the two men beside him now. “You mean, work with you?”

“Yes.” 

“Athos,” Porthos interrupted, sending him a questioning look, “We can’t ensure his safety.”

“We can’t ensure his safety no matter what we do.” Athos replied, matter-of-fact, “He may as well be of some use. This way, we can at least be certain he won’t be left alone.”

His gaze flicked over to Aramis, and he realized he was nominated to make the final verdict. 

He looked over at D’artaganan, who had been watching their discussion silently. That defensiveness had crept over his face again, ready to fight, and Aramis supposed he had missed that. It no doubt had something to do with being old; but it came as some kind of relief; like a refreshing shower after the haze of sleep. D’artaganan brought an eagerness and zeal with him that he only ever saw now in Porthos. And it was a rather selfish motive, but he couldn’t deny he wanted more of it.

He settled for a shrug.

“He might be very helpful.” He said.

It was worth it, really, just for the way D’artagnan grinned, and he pushed aside that slow shadow of doubt and concern; setting it on the breeze that was beginning to make the trees along the boulevard rustle, and whisper secrets of moments long since dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anyone else not okay after that last episode ???  
> i am [here](http://icarus-drunk.tumblr.com/) on tumblr by the way!!! ~~come say bonjour~~


	4. Jardin du Luxembourg; Cour de la Métairie; Rue de Sévigné

It transpired, much to D’artagnan’s chagrin, that assisting three supernatural beings catch a vampire that had wanted to kill him was surprisingly dull. 

He found himself an hour or so later seated on one of the hard metal chairs in the Luxembourg Gardens. 

They’d dragged the four heavy chairs into the shade of one of the lines of trees that waved in neat rows around the strips of lush grass. They were near the edge of the gardens; by the tall metal railings that bordered it from the Boulevard Saint-Michel on the other side; a chaotic medley of cars, mopeds, pigeons and tourists cut off by stretches of lawn and sandy paths.

Dust kicked itself up from the ground on passing fans of breeze; spiralling up and away towards where the small lake glinted; toy sailboats wobbling on its surface. 

Only half of their company had been contented about the selection of the location; that had resulted from Porthos impatiently growling it in a tone that brooked little argument, after five minutes spent bickering over which café to occupy. 

Athos seemed irked over the lack of security; looking stonily about the gardens as if they were personally responsible for failed secrets. Aramis had pointedly dragged his chair as far into the shade of the nearest tree as possible; and had concealed his face once again beneath his outlandish sunglasses.

Porthos, however, had settled himself onto his reclining chair with a paper bag from the McDonald’s across the other side of the boulevard, and was wolfing down a cheeseburger, one leg slung over the metal arm of the chair as he looked down at the map of Paris that Athos had spread over a fifth chair. 

D’artagnan had just pinpointed the road where his hostel lay; where he’d seen that figure the night before last; a shadow at the end of a street that had set his heart racing to his throat. Athos leant forwards and methodically dotted it with a marker pen. 

“So,” He mused, capping the pen and frowning down at the map, “The Rue Julien Lacroix and Rue Léon Giraud,” 

“Not an unusual distance for a vampire’s hunting ground,” Aramis said in a reasoning tone. D’artagnan still had trouble taking that sort of comment in stride; it tripped him as if he’d snagged a piece of clothing on barbed wire. His head was reeling, and he was exhausted. He’d tried to breathe as he’d sat there, thinking of Constance’s advice. But he was on edge in a way he had never been before, but at the same time he was _alive_. It was like a furnace was raging beneath his skin; a fevered heat that would not allow rest or ease of mind. 

“Especially one set on munching on our friend here,” Porthos added with a grin, offering D’artagnan a chip. He took it gratefully and tried to remember if he’d eaten anything since the biscuit in their flat all those hours ago. 

“And it gives us little indication as to whether she was near her hideout, or if she was straying beyond her usual range,” Athos contemplated, tapping the pen against the sprawling lines of the city. 

“We almost need to bring her out again,” Aramis said, “But I feel that would go against Treville’s orders of keeping you safe, D’artagnan.” 

“Why not do it, if it will catch her?” D’artagnan stated, staring down his reflection in Aramis’s sunglasses. 

“That’s a last resort.” Athos said in a finalizing tone, “I think we need to pay a visit to some local packs and see what they can tell us.”

Porthos groaned around his burger at this information. 

“Packs.” D’artagnan repeated, and he wasn’t sure why his mind hadn’t posed this possibility already. He felt rather put out at himself.

“Yes.” Athos confirmed, rolling up the map and offering nothing else.

-

“Don’t you have a more effective way of travelling?” He asked a half hour later, panting as he followed the three of them up another flight of metro steps. His ribs were drumming pain in his chest; his breathing constricted in his throat.

“There’s the catacombs and the sewers.” Porthos said, as they emerged up onto another string of roads. D’artagnan had lost track of where they were. The buildings all looked the same; the tall pale apartments angled elegantly along the pavements, lined with trees and presse stands. “But I’m sure you like the idea of that as much as we do.” 

“Ossuaries aren’t Athos’s strong point, either.” Aramis added, 

“Why?” 

“There’s an overly alarming quantity of dead people in them.” Athos responded, and D’artagnan surrendered that for now. He had the feeling if he pursued it he’d be met with nothing but that unaccommodating expression that closed off Athos’s face like a stretch of blank, concrete wall.

Athos now steered them off to the left, past a restaurant and down a narrow street that was layered with graffiti. The high walls threw it into shadow; an archway spanning ahead of them, and D’artagnan cast a look back at the seemingly bright road behind them as he walked. 

“Where are we?” He asked, as they headed through the archway that smelt of the stale remnants of drunkenness, and out into a road with a car park spanning to their right; the walls about it stained in indecipherable and colourful writing. 

Athos exhaled a sigh.

“Cour de la Métairie,” Aramis answered, “Not far from where you said your hostel was. There’s a coven here that might be able to help us catch your stalker.” 

The end of the road housed a group of offices. Vans were parked there; their drivers at the wheel or talking to one another from their rolled down windows. One was blaring a radio station loudly. It reverberated around the closed off road; drowning out the drone of traffic on the other side of the buildings about them. 

Athos lead them to the right, to a small apartment block with rolled down shutters. He pressed the buzzer to the fourth flat five times in a row, and then a moment later a sixth time.

“Is that a code?” D’artagnan asked eagerly, and Athos looked round at him steadily; face deadpan.

“It’s impatience.” He said, and D’artagnan looked away and missed the half smirk he sent at Porthos and Aramis. 

The door droned and unlocked a moment later, and Athos pulled it open. They followed him up a dank stairwell whose only source of light were the slips of discoloured windows underneath each flight of steps.

They halted on the third floor, turning to face the door marked with the number four, and Athos stepped back and made a motioning gesture towards Aramis. Over his left shoulder, Porthos let out a deep sigh of lament.

“What?” D’artagnan asked, words hushed by the silence of the stairwell that seemed to press its dinginess on them like insulation. 

“I can’t say I’m too fond of vampire hideouts.” Porthos replied in a low voice that carried all the same. “They smell odd.”

“Speak for yourself.” Aramis said loudly, and rapped stridently on the door to the fourth apartment.

D’artagnan wasn’t quite sure what he had been expecting; some Dracula or Count von Count figure maybe. But the young woman who answered the door simply look tired and wary. The skin under her eyes was streaked with shadows; her dark hair curling about her shoulders.

“Good afternoon, Fleur.” Aramis said pleasantly, leaning against the doorframe. “Is your democratically appointed leader in?”

“I don’t know why you speak with such sarcasm, Aramis,” An amused female voice said, and a moment later a second woman appeared at the doorway. She placed something like a protective hand on the shoulder of the other girl, “We operate with nothing but fairness here,”

“That makes you different from the rest of Paris,” Aramis allowed, smiling, “How are you, Ninon?”

“I was very well. Until a werewolf, a human and a ghost showed up on the doorstep to this sanctuary.” Ninon replied. She had a proud face; forming her words with a deliberate precision, as if they were an art form. D’artagnan felt a shiver of something settle along his spine as her eyes considered him briefly. He wasn’t sure if it stemmed from his new awareness, but there was a trace of age in her eyes that didn’t match her long fair hair, or the smooth lines of her skin. 

“You’re still handsome, Athos,” She commented, tilting her head sideways as she studied him. A smile lit at her mouth, and the girl beside her smirked, “I don’t suppose that will ever change?”

“A sole advantage to being a permanently half manifested apparition.” Athos commented dryly, and D’artagnan supposed he imagined the way he shifted, as if suddenly ill at ease. “May we ask you a few questions?”

Ninon sighed, and a moment later tapped Fleur on the shoulder, drawing her aside,

“If you must.” She said tiredly, “But I should warn you this degree of cooperation will not become a habit.” 

Aramis shot Athos an amused look, before stepping over the threshold and into the flat. 

It was an odd apartment, D’artaganan considered, looking about him as Ninon led them along the narrow hallway. It was cramped and had the threadbare feel of age mixed in with that of care. The walls were scrubbed clean and painted white, as if hoping to tempt some semblance of space; and canvases were inventively lined where there was room. 

He did a double take at a Monet piece. The copy was free of the flat attempts of mimicking, but it could only be a copy, surely.

Ninon showed them into what seemed to serve as the living room; one strewn with pale settees but mostly devoted, as far as D’artagnan could tell, to a widespread collection of books. They lined shelves about the room; and were stacked on coffee tables, so extensively that he wasn’t entirely sure walking forwards any further would be prudent. Laptops were placed on top of the odd teetering piles of pages; or mugs of half-finished coffee.

“You seem to have frightened my friends off,” Ninon considered, smiling as she looked towards an adjoining room, before calling, “Come back out here, ladies, we’re not afraid of werewolves and ghosts, are we?”

A run of sniggering sounded from the next room, and the faces of three young women peered through the doorway. Ninon beckoned them forwards, and they returned to what appeared to be recently vacated spots; the sofa, or a desk chair. A dark haired girl moved towards the laptop; steadying it with her hands.

“As you can see we were busy,” Ninon said, clasping her hands together as she stood before them; back arched and straight. She was speaking primarily to Athos, D’artaganan noticed. “So I do hope this is important.” 

“Have any new recruits come to you lately?” Athos asked, eyes wandering round the room, and D’artagnan wondered if he were deliberately avoiding Ninon’s direct gaze.

“Is this on behalf of Louis?” Ninon asked, raising an eyebrow, “I hadn’t realised we needed to report every new girl who came to us.” 

“D’artagnan was attacked about half an hour’s walk away from here.” Athos said, a hand moving to indicate D’artagnan briefly, “By a female vampire.”

“And you blame me?” Her lips quirked, as if she was unsure whether to be amused or offended,

“I merely wondered if you knew anything of it,” Athos told her, and Ninon’s hand moved to play at a brooch hung about her neck; a wren stretching silver wings towards the ceiling. 

“I don’t,” She replied, the words slipping from her mouth with measured exactness, “And not much takes place in Paris without my hearing of it.” 

“Then you’ll listen out for us?” Athos asked, and a small smile was curving the edges of his lips. 

“I suppose I would not resent you being in my debt.” Ninon agreed, tilting her chin upwards as she considered his face with that same intent expression. Her lips shaped into a smile.

There was a beat of silence as they studied one another. 

Aramis sniggered.

Porthos coughed loudly and deliberately. 

Ninon’s eyes flicked to him.

“I believe your friends are growing impatient,” She said to Athos, a smirk growing on her face again as she turned to address the other women in the room, “Behold the urban werewolf, ladies. Four nights after the full moon. Do you sense its fading presence?”

“I definitely have better days.” Porthos replied, stiffening slightly, and the women in the room looked at him, as if he were a piece of artwork to critique, or perhaps more fittingly, a bug pinned to a board.

“What do you do here?” D’artagnan asked, looking about at the shelves of books once more. 

“We learn.” Ninon responded, turning to face him in that direct manner of hers, “We read and educate ourselves. Writing,” She said, turning to smile at the girls on the other side of the room, “The one sure immortality.” 

“That, and love.” Aramis offered, and he looked rather pleased with himself as a few of the women sniggered again.

“Indeed.” Ninon mused, considering him with an entertained look in her eye. “Well, if that’s all, gentlemen, we must ask you to leave.” She headed forwards, as if to herd them back out along the narrow corridor and towards the front door. Her hand reached up and touched lightly at Athos’s arm, and she appeared to not care about the cold shock that surely came from the contact. “But do feel free to stop by if you are ever inclined to learn something of the world’s workings. It would be preferable if any male ego is left behind, of course.”

-

“That was a coven?” D’artagnan asked once they were back on the street, heading back along to the metro stop underneath the city. Paris was heading towards late afternoon now; the sun spinning across the sky with a laziness that seemed to strew itself about most aspects of the city. Even the start of rush hour traffic had an idleness about it.

“Of sorts.” Aramis told him, as they began the descent down the metro steps; graffitied adverts lining the walls, “Ninon de Larroque takes in young, female vampires that have nowhere else to turn. It’s a sanctuary, more than anything. And, as she told you, a place of learning. I’d wager she knows more about the vampire condition than anyone else in this country.” 

“How old is she?” 

“I first met her in 1871, during the Commune.” Aramis reflected, looking up at the fluorescent lights that lined the metro ceiling, temporarily invisible as he cast his mind back to days when gas lights had lined the streets above them now. “And I think she was young then. She had fallen in with a group of poor artists.”

“Who coincidentally become rather renowned.” Athos put in with dry amusement, and D’artagnan thought back to the very real-looking Monet piece. 

“Oh.” He said, stupidly.

“What now, then?” Porthos asked when they emerged onto the platform that set them on the Châtelet line. It was beginning to fill with the crush of commuters, heading back to warm apartments or houses in the suburbs, ready to end their working days. D’artagnan felt odd to stand amongst them; as if a barrier had placed itself between them, one that was tall and impenetrable. 

“We go and get a drink.” Athos said. And that idea suddenly seemed the most logical thing D’artagnan had heard for three days.

-

Happy hour had started at Le Piment Café when they settled in the corner of it; along a window printed with its opening hours. It was a building draped in grey, orange and pink hues; glinting off the bottles that were hanging above the bar.

The street outside held the bustle of the centre of the city; workers and shoppers streaming off from the ever-busy Rue de Rivoli. 

“We could check with another coven, of course,” Aramis said, as he arrived back from the bar, happy to continue a conversation that had been left on the platform at Pyrénées twenty minute ago. He deposited four drinks on the table as he spoke, settling back into his vacated seat. D’artagnan didn’t question the half lager that was pushed in Athos’s direction. “All of them, in fact.”

“We will if we have to,” Athos agreed, and both of them seemingly disregarded the horror that had taken over Porthos’s features. “Even if our other sources aren’t quite as reliable as Ninon de Larroque.”

“Or quite as taken with you.” Porthos added with a scheming grin in Aramis’s direction. 

“Ingenious.” Athos said flatly. “In the meantime, we’ll need to keep an eye on you.”

He was speaking to D’artagnan, and he felt a rush of irritation steal over him at it; a frustration at feeling like some child they were lumbered with.

“What difference can it make?” He asked impatiently, “If she wants me dead as much as you say she does?”

“It might not seem like it to you,” Aramis said, slouching back against the stone of the café wall, “But we’re actually quite intimidating when we choose to be.”

D’artagnan might have been inclined to believe him, if Aramis’s words hadn’t been interrupted by his phone starting to buzz on the table; filling their corner of the café with a tinny ringtone that transpired to be ‘Vampire Money’. 

Aramis took a look at the caller, and pulled a face.

“Treville,” He said in an amicable tone once he’d pressed the phone to his ear, “How lovely to hear from you-” 

He broke off then, and D’artagnan didn’t have to listen hard to hear the gruff voice at the other end. Aramis remained silent throughout the speech, sucking in on one cheek in a rather sullen manner.

“Very well,” He finally said, eyebrows raising, “We’ll be there almost immediately.” 

It seemed Treville had hung up before Aramis got the chance to, as he dropped his phone carelessly back onto the table, and looked up at the three of them with an air of amused submission.

“It appears that we are required at court.” He said, and in one resigned movement drained his glass.

“Why?” Porthos asked, and Aramis shrugged,

“Louis apparently has a request to make of us.”

“Or Richelieu does.” Athos said stiffly, and he contemplated the drink in from of him, frowning at it. It slid back slightly, slipping on the surface that was damp from the bottoms of wet glasses. He sighed and got to his feet, “I suppose we had better go.”

“We definitely are getting use out of those pricey metro season tickets.” Aramis said brightly, tucking his chair under the table. 

“Just as well, really,” Porthos muttered to D’artagnan as they moved towards the café’s exit, “Steady jobs are hard to get when you’re technically dead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm making myself want mcdonald's in paris what is happening
> 
> thank you to the people who are reading this!! it's so lovely to write when you're enjoying it!!! <3


	5. Palais Royal; Frenchie to Go; Metro Line 7

It was only two stops on the metro to Palais Royal- Musée de Louvre.

They’d been steadily moving towards the more opulent centre of the city all day, and now D’artagnan found himself in the heart of Paris; surrounded by wide boulevards and roads swept with horse chestnut trees.

They turned away from the main entrance to the Palais, down to a busy, stretching crossroads, where on the right side of the building there ran a spanning colonnade, intricate metal lamps hanging down from its ceiling. 

“There used to be good company beneath these columns,” Aramis reflected, looking up at them as they passed. “And theatres. And rather a lot of casinos, as I recall.” 

“What’s it like?” D’artagnan asked, accidentally stepping off the pavement, and being hauled back onto it once more by Athos, as a moped zoomed past. “Being alive for so long?” 

1848, he’d said he’d died, and D’artagnan could not imagine life for that length of time, his head struggled with the thought of immortality, of simply _living_ , forever. 

Aramis looked at him, and there was a desperate kind of tiredness in his eyes.

“It can be really rather tedious,” He replied. And D’artagnan left it at that.

“Now,” Athos said, in a tone D’artagnan instantly thought he disliked. He had been walking slightly ahead of them after pulling D’artagnan from the road and now he turned about, directing his gaze onto him. It was an intense look, D’artagnan thought; not exactly hostile, but not particularly friendly, “You stay here.” 

“What?” D’artagnan questioned, defiance ebbing into his stance, “Why?”

“No-one in court knows we’ve told a human about us,” Athos said, eyes flicking over to study the large fountain in the middle of the road, encircled by benches, lamps and trees, “And I’d prefer it if it stayed that way.”

“So you’re leaving me out here,” D’artagnan demanded, “Where I could be attacked at any time?”

He hadn’t really seen being attacked in the middle of Paris in late afternoon light as a potential problem, and he’d expected Athos to roll his eyes and dismiss him. But at his words, Athos visibly hesitated. Which was unusual, D’artagnan mused. He hadn’t really thought his safety would have been so important to someone who seemed so distant and cool. 

And perhaps what he was gradually learning, was that nothing really appeared as it seemed any more. 

“Richelieu has spies everywhere,” Porthos said measuredly, looking at D’artagnan carefully, “And Rochefort. They’re bound to find out sooner or later.”

“Better we’re actually present to defend ourselves when they do.” Aramis agreed, smiling, nudging Porthos with his hip playfully. Porthos, much to D'artagnan's surprise, blushed. 

“I can handle it if you can,” D’artagnan said, turning to Athos before he could stop himself, and he gave him a smile that might have been pleasant if he hadn’t been gritting his jaw quite so much.

Athos studied him with an unreadable expression, before raising his eyebrows and turning away in a sign of rather reluctant acquiescence. 

“Very well,” He muttered. 

The colonnade ended a metre or so ahead, and they turned right onto a side road that followed the Palais round, next to expensive, shiny parked cars.

An archway lay ahead of them; tricolore streaming overhead next to the words ‘Conseil Constitutionnel’ and Aramis shot it an amused look as they passed it, heading away along Rue de Montpensier. 

“Don’t we go in that way?” D’artagnan asked, looking over his shoulder at the grand entrance.

“Nope.” Porthos told him, “We have to opt for less majestic ways in.”

“Ironically.” Aramis commented, “It makes Louis furious.” 

The door Athos ended up pushing open was an inconspicuous teal set of double doors, and the warm haze of the street left them as they stepped into a cool, dark room that D’artagnan’s eyes took a moment to adapt to.

When they did, he was faced with dark, chequered tiles, dimly lit by low electric light set in a chandelier above.

And two, oddly hungry looking men.

“We’re here to see the king,” Athos said, barely sparing them a glance as he began to head down a long corridor; one interspersed with shuttered windows that let slithers of light fall across the checked floor. 

“Very well.” One of the men muttered, slumping back against the wall he had apparently been leaning, bored, against. The other had fixed a look on D’artagnan, and he wasn’t   
too sure what to think about the expression on his face.

“He’s with us,” Porthos said sharply, grabbing D’artagnan’s arm rather painfully, and hauling him along in Athos’s wake. The man hung back, looking disappointed.

“Erm, what was that?” D’artagnan asked, casting a look over his shoulder as they marched down the corridor; footsteps echoing towards the high ceiling above them. 

“He looked rather peckish.” Aramis reflected, “But they must be bored, standing guard for most of the day. Red guards don’t have much else to do, bless them.”

D’artagnan attempted to absorb that for a few seconds, then unleashed his feelings on the matter. 

“Why is everyone trying to _eat_ me?”

“I wouldn’t take it personally.” Aramis said cheerfully, tapping him on the shoulder in what was evidently supposed to be a comforting manner. 

The corridor ended eventually, with a broad, spanning set of double doors, gilded with gold along groves that ran around their circumferences. The hum of voices lay beyond it, and a feeling of unease crept over D’artagnan as he studied one of the gold-plated door handles; its patterns spiralling over the white wood.

Porthos let out a disgruntled noise,

“Come on then,” He growled, and shouldered the door open.

D'artagnan's first thought was his considering the possibility that they had stepped backwards in time.

He’d seen pictures of Versailles, and visited the nearest chateaus back in the south, and the room that arched before him now looked as if it could have slotted amongst their vast quarters with ease.

High ceilings gilded in Rococo style stretched high above him. Stucco detailed the walls and ceilings; pale and pastel colours chalked about the decorations in a way that would have been soothing if D’artagnan’s blood didn’t feel so hot. 

There were high windows following the straight lines of the room, but they were shuttered despite the warm sun outside; strips of light falling across the chequered marble tiles below their feet in a lazy manner. Suspended at a middle height, delicate glass chandeliers were lit; electricity humming softly through the air.

The hall-like room was clustered with various groups of people. They stood by the unlit, vast fireplace, or by the long white curtains that rippled now and then as a breeze broke through the shuttered windows. They cast looks at them, curiosity on their features, and D’artagnan’s mind surged forth images of black eyes and twisted features with a suddenness that sent a shiver along his skin. 

There was a screen at the far end of the room; patterned with stitched roses and twisting vines. A young man was standing next to it, tracing the patterns with an absent-minded finger, face set with boredom. An older man stood by him, addressing him in a low voice. 

The oldern man looked over as they approached, and D’artagnan would have faltered if Aramis hadn’t been behind him. The look of dislike on his sharp features held an intensity he’d never seen before.

“Ah, good!” Said the bored looking man, brightening visibly at the sight of them, “This afternoon was becoming very dull. Treville, come over here.”

A rather grim-looking man detached himself from one group of bystanders at the man’s request, crossing the marble floor to stand a few metres away. He flicked a look towards D’artagnan, as if trying to demand an explanation for his presence purely by the disapproving set of his mouth. 

“Now,” The younger man said again, and he leapt onto the arm of a nearby chaise lounge, setting his feet on the cushions. “I have a task for the three of you-” 

He broke off at that, as if in fact realising there were _not_ three of them.

“Who are you?” He asked blankly, looking at D’artagnan. 

Aramis opened his mouth, but Treville stepped forwards,

“Forgive me, your majesty,” He said in a gruff voice, “This was going to be presented to you at a later date,” He shot a look to Porthos, Aramis and Athos as he spoke, and Aramis coughed. 

“We’ve been investigating an attack in the north of the city, and D’artagnan has been helping-” Athos began telling this man, who was not who D'artagnan had envisaged as king of the undead, but the older man cut him off, 

“And you didn’t think to notify the court?”

“It’s been a recent development,” Aramis said lightly, and the young man clapped his hands together from the chaise lounge.

“But he’s human!” He said with an air of delight.

“He can wait outside, your majesty,” Treville said, sending a look over towards D’artagnan, and he’d suddenly never heard of a better plan. A Court of the Undead, as he hadn’t fully appreciated the first time he’d heard it, meant exactly that.

The people around them all had that tired, slightly ill looking complexion that weighed on Aramis’s features, as they watched the proceedings with a kind of dulled interest that spoke of an age he wouldn’t have ascribed to them at first glance. It set him uneasy, as if he were looking at the crumbling, moulding walls of a decaying house that had been painted over as if to look new.

The king, Louis, as Aramis had referred to him as, had that same veiled look of age, despite the youth of his features. His hair was styled meticulously; careful waves of hair that were moulded upwards in a quiff towards the high ceiling. He was playing absently with the cuffs of a faded denim jacket as he observed D’artagnan, as if he were the most interesting thing he’d seen in a decade or two. 

The older man was speaking again,

“-Unprecedented and rash,” D’artagnan caught the tail end of, “You’ve endangered this society. Why did you not think to ask the king before you opened your mouths?”

“Oh, come, Richelieu,” Louis said through a yawn, “If these lot told me everything that was going on I’m sure my head would weigh a tonne.” He looked back at D’artagnan as Porthos shifted next to him at Louis’s words, and spoke the next words in a lazy, unconcerned voice, “Are you going to tell the human population that vampires and werewolves are haunting the streets of Paris?”

It was a very specific feeling, knowing that every eye in the court was turned on him, as if he’d been pushed out onto a stage without lines; the light blinding him and the rustle of an expectant audience filling his ears. He looked at Louis, this apparent king of a society he hadn’t believed even existed a matter of days ago.

“I seriously doubt anyone would believe me.” He finally said weakly, and Louis looked elated again. 

“Precisely!” He grinned, “You should _see_ the faces of some of the newly turned-” The older man Louis had called Richelieu cleared his throat lightly.

“But I suppose another time,” He sighed, a hand coming up to touch gently at his hair, as if to reassure himself it was still a work of art, “I see no reason why he can’t provide some assistance, Richelieu. We’re all for commonality and co-operation with other races, are we not? But, yes, I suppose he should wait outside for now.” 

He wasn’t looking at D’artagnan any more (and he supposed that was what happened when you’d been alive for as long as he assumed Louis had. Things grew dull quickly) but he could sense the weight of the eyes of the rest of the room, the clear dismissal that was pushing against him like a magnetic force.

“Sorry,” Aramis muttered from next to him, “We’ll meet you outside.”

He looked at the three of them, meeting Porthos’s shrug and the expressionless face of Athos, before turning on his heel and heading back over that marbled floor. The crowds parted as he went; making way for him, eyes staring.

And he walked out the Court of the Undead; filled with eyes he couldn’t decide where hungry or curious, and felt that he perhaps understood the term of walking into a lion’s den far better than he had ever planned to.

\- 

The street outside was blindingly bright when he emerged back out onto it.

It was empty except for a businessman or two heading home early, and a couple taking a photograph of the street rising above them. 

He walked back the way they’d arrived, towards the large stretch of crossroads where the fountain still gurgled past a flow of traffic. And it felt bizarre, to be walking in a perfectly ordinary medley of boulevards in Paris, when he knew that barely metres away, a group of vampires and werewolves and whatever else were casually standing in a opulently furnished room, quibbling about protocol. 

He dazedly crossed the brief stretch of road that separated him from the small circle of paving where the fountain stood, ignoring the customary rally of car horns.

There was a bench on the edge of the island of paving, between the waving trees and elegant lampposts, and he sank absently onto it; the movement spreading relief to his bruised body. 

The traffic circled around him, and tourists walked by in streams; the air a medley of car horns, whirring engines and tyres and the sound of the restless march of feet. It exhausted him, and pounded the unexplainable feeling of being lost through every inch of his aching limbs. 

A hand touched his shoulder, and he leapt to his feet. 

And the woman from Père Lachaise gave a low laugh. 

“I did not think you would scare so easily,” She said, one hand coming to lean on the back of the bench, fingers drumming on the chipped paint as she observed him with amusement.

“Who are you?” He asked, getting to his feet to face her. The words slipped out more aggressively than he had intended; but tiredness was dragging at his limbs, and he’d been all over Paris today, and the medley of late afternoon traffic was nothing to the chaos whirling in his head. 

She didn’t seem fazed by his tone, and instead looked idly over to the fountain, observing the small winged statue on its apex with something akin to boredom.

“A friend,” She finally replied, turning back to him, lips curving into a smile, 

“What’s your name?” He asked roughly. 

“Madame de la Chapelle.” She told him calmly, and then she held out a hand, “Come with me, D’artagnan.”

“Where to?” 

She smiled at the suspicion his words were laced with, as if he were a child she were indulging, 

“To get lunch, of course.” She said patiently. "But perhaps you're right to be suspicious here."

“It’s five o’clock?”

“No-one eats lunch early in Paris, D’artagnan.”

He looked at her; her hand outstretched still, eyebrows raised expectantly. And his eyes flickered to the side road that the Palais was just concealed by; Aramis’s promise to meet him outside sounding in the back of his mind.

And images resurfaced themselves; of walking out of the court after being sent away; of Athos’s closed off expression in response to his questions, and the constant frustration that had settled itself about him these past few days like a sore throat stung heavier.

“Ok.” He said, and took her outstretched fingers in his.

She let go once they were across the road, leading him down the street just before the one that ran alongside the Palais and, also now apparently, the Council of the Undead. 

She didn’t speak as she walked, slightly ahead of him, passed the neat, tall rows of buildings; their ground floors devoted to cafés, or laundrettes, and he watched her, taking in the high line of her cheekbones, and the proud way she carried herself. She dressed well, and in a manner that seemed to speak of wealth. But there was a character to the way she lead him confidently down side streets and alleys that he wasn’t sure belonged to the way she presented herself.

She looked back at him as they emerged into a circular place, a statue of Louis XIV sat proudly aside a horse in its centre.

“Did you know that was torn down during the Revolution?” She told him in a casual tone, gesturing to the statue, “A commemoration of a king’s victories. Of course, after they’d put it up, Frances’ wars were disasters.” She turned back to him and smiled in a way that didn’t quite meet her dark eyes, “A lesson in arrogance, perhaps?” 

“Are we having lunch, or a guided tour?” D’artagnan asked, and her smile deepened.

“Is Paris not a moveable feast?” She questioned. 

But she led him past the upmarket stores silently for the next five minutes, and it was only when she steered him away from the wider road they had been walking down and into a narrow street crammed with pizzerias and kebab shops that she gave any acknowledgement to his presence.

“I hope you like pulled pork.” She commented casually, 

“Only if you’re planning to pay this time.” He told her, and she still seemed more amused than deterred by the coldness of his tone. Perhaps no one trusted anyone in Paris.

She sat him down at café that looked much the same as the hundreds that were to be found about the city; dark wood with white walls and blackboards chalked with food prices up on the far wall. 

She left him at a high table that looked in on the café through shin high windows; where at an open kitchen chefs in striped aprons let frying pans sizzle and spit. The clatter of china and the ringing of glasses flowed out onto their halfway spot on the narrow street. He watched her stalk towards the till, and after a brief exchange with the man behind it,   
she headed back towards him. And he was fairly certain he had not seen money exchange hands. 

“Who are you?” He asked in a defeated tone, as she settled on the bar stool next to him, fingers coming up to play briefly with the waves of dark hair that had slipped forwards before tossing it over her shoulder.

“I already told you,” She replied, “I’m a friend, D’artagnan. Which is more than you can say for the rest of the people in this city.” 

He looked at her, trying to read her face and see past the set, schooled nature of her features. And he wondered how it was possible to encase this many questions in his head. 

She was as much of a mystery as the illogical world he’d been exposed to; a world probably two million people in this city had no clue of existing. She was looking at him now; a current of something running in her dark eyes and twisting her lips, and she was beautiful, but he’d never felt so uneasy around someone in his life.

“A friend,” He repeated instead. “And what do you know about the people of this city?”

“Rather a lot, unfortunately,” She replied, as a waiter arrived at their table and deposited two pulled pork sandwiches and a plate of burrata onto the long table. “And it must be daunting, coming to Paris from, where? Gers?” 

“Poueyferre.” He told her, and he was unsure why he did. 

“Of course,” She said, with something mocking in the twist of her smile, “Well, this is quite a change, no doubt, especially when you’re alone.” 

She paused, and extricated her sandwich from its brown paper wrapping with overly graceful movements, fingers splayed. She seemed to be waiting for her words to take effect, and D’artagnan tried not to think of the casual dismissal from Aramis, and the unanswered questions he held. And the ache of his ribs, and the dragging of tiredness on every muscle of his body, like an anchor had been spun about his neck. 

“I have a powerful ally,” She paused and tilted her head slightly, “Well, I suppose I could call him a friend. But he could be your acquaintance too, if you wanted.”

“Why would I want that?” He asked her, and he watched her eat, trying very hard to ignore his own sandwich, and wondering why it would feel like surrender if he began to eat it. 

“I fail to see why you wouldn’t.” She shrugged, and then sent a glance to his sandwich. Her lip curled slightly, “I haven’t poisoned it, D’artagnan.”

Years of being taught ‘manners first’ by his father flopped limply back into his mind, and he quietly took the sandwich and bit into it. 

His stomach rumbled alarmingly. He hadn’t quite realised he was starving. It didn’t feel like he should have room left for hunger. 

He suddenly realised how little he had to say to the woman next to him, who called herself Madame de la Chapelle as if it had been a private joke, how the mystery of her presence in his life had just left him tired, instead of curious. Perhaps it was possible to have so many questions that they simply overflowed in his mind, and sank down some hole, like water in dried earth. 

Her talk of friends exhausted him, voicing the word as if she really meant allies, as if they were in the midst of a war and they were trying to survive.

Which, he supposed, he was. 

“I have to go,” He said, before he’d entirely thought it through, and then he was clambering down from the high bar stool, wiping a hand across his mouth. He cast a brief look at her, before moving out from the café’s chairs, trying to summon some recollection of the way he had taken to get here. 

“D’artagnan.” 

He turned back to look at her as she spoke, his name being dressed in a commanding, amused tone.

She arched an eyebrow, and wordlessly held out his half eaten sandwich towards him, a smile tugging her lips.

That oddly knowing, mocking expression followed his mind back along the sunlit streets, past the statue of Louis XIV; a remnant of its former self that had been brought toppling downwards in the days of revolution.

-

“We should have put a bike lock on him.” Aramis told Porthos for the second time, lolling on the bench on the round island amongst the traffic, the fountain behind them a deafening medley as it mixed with the rush of car exhausts.

“It’s not funny.” Porthos told him for the second time, and watched Aramis tilt his neck upwards to look at the sky, in apparent grudging at the reprimand. Porthos sometimes wondered how Aramis was technically the oldest of the three of them. He eventually lowered his head and sent Porthos a wink. 

“Dude, where’s my human?” Porthos muttered, giving up the pretence of trying to be disapproving, and Aramis clapped a hand over his heart in some mock display of pride.

Porthos looked over at Athos’s unamused face, and rather regretted the comment.

“Can you track him down?” Athos asked him, in a tired voice, and Porthos felt the same way. He missed quiet days, sometimes, he really did. 

“It won’t be easy,” He told him, “This city stinks.” 

Athos reached out a hand and lightly pressed it against Porthos’s arm. He felt a brief surge of chill before Athos moved off to sink down onto the bench next to Aramis. 

That was really the main reason Porthos tried. He couldn’t see a reason why D’artagnan would have left through anything other than choice, not here, in the centre of Paris. But Athos was tired, and wanted D'artagnan found. So Porthos would do exactly that.

He closed his eyes, letting the air of the city fill his lungs; some smoggy mix of car fumes, food, and that stale taste that always came in the midst of a cram of buildings and people. Those scents washed over him, rushed through his respiratory system with a ferocity that he had never experienced when he was human. He let those scents wash through his mind, splitting them into their sections with that sharp precision he could still access in the days of the waning moon, trying to call forth that one scent that was attributed to the boy with dark hair and bruised ribs.

“Porthos?”

Porthos opened his eyes, saw the exact image he’d recalled in his mind in four dimension, and swore under his breath.

D’artganan looked somewhere between amused and concerned.

“When Aramis said we’d meet you outside,” Athos said frostily, “He probably should have specified he _didn’t_ mean anywhere in Paris that you wanted.”

“Someone should have said something.” D’artagnan said coolly. “I didn’t mean interfere with your delicate human relations.” 

“We were just concerned,” Aramis put in, before Athos could respond. He could probably read the lines of Athos’s posture too, after their years together. He met Porthos’s quirked eyebrow with a glint of amusement. “Perhaps now is a great time to exchange numbers? To prevent further confusion.”

D’artagnan shook his head in quiet irritation as he nonetheless took out his phone, stamping the numbers Porthos began to rattle off by heart with a ferocity that Porthos felt he perhaps understood. He’d felt it himself, that unexplainable fury at his own ignorance, all the way back when the people who walked these streets had been dressed in haute couture; pompadour hairstyles slicked on their heads. 

“Oh, and give her Constance’s number,” Aramis said when Porthos had finished listing theirs, “She answers far oftener than Athos. Plus you don’t get any of that weird interference when the phone line is being used by a ghost.”

“No-one ever knows what he’s saying,” Porthos agreed as Athos made a low noise of irritation, pulling out his phone to find Constance’s number. He deliberated giving D’artagnan Gilles Bonacieux’s number in a moment of malice towards Gilles, but then thought better of it. They’d kept Constance’s regrettably long-standing fiancé in the dark this long, best not to dismantle his rather outstanding ignorance purely for amusement. 

“Call me maybe.” Aramis concluded, when Porthos had finished, before getting to his feet with a yawn, “It’s not normally me who concludes fun excursions among normal people, but I’m up for a metro ride back to our armchair.”

“I call dibs.” Porthos said, and Aramis looked affronted.

D’artagnan hesitated slightly as they made to head back towards those sleek metro steps that would set them heading away from this glistening segment of the city that always found itself onto the postcards and filtered Instagram photos; away to their graffitied, litter-strewn street, where the club music didn’t stop pulsing until the early hours of the morning. Back to their home, or the only one Porthos had ever cared to know. He looked at D’artagnan hesitate, and stopped to face him.

“We can update you on what Louis wanted on the way,” He said, knowing it wasn’t the same as being fully included, knowing D’artagnan was still set between these odd levels; stuck between this busy street and the quiet, cold halls of the Court of the Undead. But it was a start. And D’artagnan must have thought so too, as he nodded, and they headed after Aramis and Athos.

-

Aramis sunk his head back against the metal headrest of his metro seat, and immediately regretted it as his hair came into contact with something ominously sticky. He got up and offered the seat to a woman younger than him, and tried to convince himself that it wasn’t a completely selfish act.

“So what did Louis want?” D’artagnan asked, as Aramis resettled himself against one of the poles that stretched from the ceiling of the metro train to its stained floor. D’artagnan across from Athos and Porthos, and was in significant danger of slipping onto the floor he was leaning forwards so far. 

Aramis sighed heavily as the remembrance.

“He has a rather important visitor coming next week that he would like us to babysit.” Porthos replied, jogging his feet against the limp colour of the floor. 

“Who?” 

“A rather wealthy individual who calls himself the Duke of Savoy.” Aramis supplied. 

“He’s a self-glorified fool.” Porthos grumbled and Aramis shot him an appreciative smirk.

“Like dynasties of other abolished monarchies, he still refers to himself by a title that existed before Savoy became part of France.” Athos informed D’artagnan. He was slouched in his seat, tiredness etched across his posture in a way that Aramis wished he could sap him of, and bring smiles to his lips instead. “He can’t claim anything by it, of course. He’s been dead for over a century.”

“Of course he has.” D’artagnan said levelly. 

“We have to treat him with the reverence he believes he deserves.” Aramis sighed, locking an arm around the pole and spinning once around it, “To a certain degree. So Louis wants us to give him a guided tour of all Paris’s prettiest corners.” 

“And save his life in case of unprecedented and terrible werewolf attacks.” Porthos muttered with a dramatic eye roll. The lady in the seat next to his imperceptibly shuffled away from him.

D’artagnan leant even further forwards.

“Can you change when it’s not a full moon?” He asked, voice so muted it was only down to the advantage of supernatural hearing that Aramis caught the words.

“No.” Porthos said shortly, which more or less killed the conversation. 

Aramis rested the side of his head against the cool metal of the pole and watched Porthos, as the metro train rattled and gasped its way over the tracks far below the city. 

He’d known him since 1951, or 1952. He couldn’t remember exactly. Some people just came into others’ lives with an ease and naturalness that made it hard to pinpoint the exact moment upon later reflection. Porthos had been so young then, and _scared_. But then, Aramis had been scared too, he supposed. 

He'd had been old too then, far older than his human self has ever dreamed of, watching tiredly as the world rattled on, its people filled with as much love and hate as they had been in the days of his youth. 

But despite that jadedness that washed itself like pale watercolour over his view of the world, Athos and Porthos and instilled themselves in his life with a determination and novelty he still had not adapted to, no matter how long he had known them. 

They were special to him in ways he couldn’t voice, in a way he had never supposed his dead heart could allow. 

He’d grown cautious in age, in a way he never had expected. Not when he was immortal; he’d expected certain things lost their risk. But perhaps that was why. The people he had about him now meant more than anything, in ways they might not have had he been able to die. 

That cautiousness had held him back all these years, in a way he felt Porthos and Athos shared. Kisses sometimes met foreheads, sometimes lips in braver moments, and hands found hair to stroke in unguarded, tired snatches. But it was all tentative; an established, precarious pattern they’d built for themselves like it was delicate porcelain. 

The train rattled into Gare du Nord; the same dingy light that lined all the metro stations of the city filtering in through the curved windows, and the majority of the people about them began to head towards the doors that slid open a moment later; people heading home from work, back to somewhere peaceful after days spent in offices fretting over company accounts and clients. Aramis watched them go, and his eyes landed on Porthos. 

He smiled back at him, and Aramis wondered if perhaps, like him, he’d felt a wild urge to get off with them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wooooo i'm slowly integrating the ot3 because yes it's beautiful i didn't realize how beautiful at first (they were dark times)
> 
> as ever i'm [here on tumblr](http://icarus-drunk.tumblr.com/) and thank you to everyone reading this you're all aces!!! <3


	6. Rue Petit; Rue d'Anjou; Rue Petit

Porthos might have called dibs on that battered armchair, but when Athos sunk into it when they at last made it back to the shelter of their apartment, Aramis exchanged one look with Porthos, and knew there was not a chance he was going to take the matter up.

“Takeout?” Aramis asked, flopping down onto the floor, and rather wishing that he had hoovered after all, as it rasped rather distressingly.

“ _Definitely_.” Porthos grumbled, and he disappeared into the next room, where there was an accompanying creaking of bed springs followed with a low sigh. “ _Pizza_.” 

“Do you hate garlic?” D’artagnan asked Aramis curiously.

“What kind of thoughtless stereotype is that?” Aramis muttered and D’artagnan looked momentarily bewildered.

“Did you check out of your hostel?” Athos asked him, apparently not having listened to the earlier comments, mind focused in one direction in a way that was sometimes characteristic. He looked too tired, Aramis thought quickly.

D’artagnan shook his head.

“I forgot.” He replied, “I’ll have to go there tomorrow.” And then he groaned loudly, “And _pay_.”

“Why are you in Paris?” Porthos asked, reappearing at the doorway, hair dishevelled, and the question arose Aramis's curiosity as he shot a look at D’artagnan, standing in their apartment as if it might as well have been a vast, unfamiliar desert. 

“I don’t know.” He said quietly, any earlier defensiveness ebbing away from him like ocean swell. “I thought things might feel different, in Paris. Away from the countryside.” 

“Where about in Gascony are you from?” Porthos asked him, before Aramis could ask what he’d wanted to feel different. Porthos must have seen the crease that appeared between D’artagnan’s brows, because he continued, “Seems fair we know something about you.” 

“Because I know you all so well?” D’artagnan responded, tones still slightly clipped. But he sighed a moment later, and sank into one of the white plastic chairs. They really _did_ need to invest in a settee, Aramis thought. It had been long enough.

“Poueyferre.” D’artagnan said dully, “There’s nothing there but farms and hills.”

“I do miss the countryside.” Aramis ruminated, heaving himself up from the carpet to find the menu to the local takeout. “Any family there?”

D’artganan went silent for a moment, and Aramis decided he’d hit on a sensitive topic. 

“My father died recently.” He finally said quietly, and the tone of the room became abruptly awkward. Aramis sent Porthos a look. He’d always had a natural ease for comfort.

“I’m sure he was a great man.” He said, in that gruff tone of his that held gentleness nonetheless.

“He was.” D’artagnan agreed, and they let the silence settle a moment at that. Next door, someone plugged something into the socket, the accompanying scraping against the thin wall sounding out over their hush.

D’artagnan shifted, and looked over at Aramis, and the menu he was holding.

“What’s the stance on pineapple on pizza in this apartment?” He asked with a weak smile. 

“Not enough like pepperoni,” Porthos grumbled, at the same time Aramis said, “Hawaii is lovely.” 

“I’m going to have a shower.” Athos said quietly, untangling himself from the armchair and moving in the direction of the tiny shared bathroom by Aramis’s room. Aramis and Porthos exchanged a look as he went, one that encompassed the concern they had felt for Athos ever since they’d known him; one that they’d been able to communicate for years. 

Athos flicked a glance at them before he shut the door, fixing Aramis with a look that seemed to tell him he knew exactly what he’d just conveyed to Porthos through a silent glimpse 

“Does he even need to?” D’artagnan said, when the low drone of the shower began to sound through the door. 

“Not really no.” Aramis agreed, settling down on the vacated chair to begin to compile their pizza order. “I wish he wouldn’t. It plays havoc with our water bills.” 

“How does that even work?” D’artagnan asked, sitting up straight as new questions rushed to him, “How does no authority know you’ve been alive since 1850?”

“1816, actually.”

“It’s complicated.” Porthos supplied, leaning forwards to snatch the menu from Aramis’s hands, “We keep low on the radar. Although I think some higher ranking officials probably know about supernatural existence, and chose to keep it to themselves.” He flung the menu back into Aramis’s lap, “Meat Feast.”

“Oh _my_ ,” Aramis replied, pretending to blush.

-

Athos reappeared at the same moment the deliveryman knocked on the door, his hair damp and clinging to his temples. Porthos wasn’t sure about the physics that dictated Athos’s ability to change clothes, but he emerged nonetheless in an overlarge cardigan Porthos felt might have belonged to him once in the 70’s.

He avoided his gaze as he sank back into the armchair Aramis had just surrendered to answer the door, resting his head against his hand, elbow on the faded material of the arm. 

“Thievery.” Aramis told him, after he’d thanked the deliveryman and shut the door, balancing three boxes of pizza in one hand, and four bottles of beer in the other.

Athos made a low noise in the back of his throat, as the warm smell of baked dough and cheese began to permeate the room, setting Porthos’s stomach growling. 

“This is my chair.” He said, and Porthos and Aramis collectively groaned. 

“You can’t keep bringing that up every few years.” Aramis told him, setting the pizzas in the middle of the informal circle they had created, checking the contents of the first before handing it to Porthos. “Unless you want to buy us another chair, Mr Bank Account?”

“I gave up hope for that years ago.” Porthos said, through a mouthful of pepperoni. 

“I just took your collective hair out of the plughole, so forgive me if I’m not feeling generous.” Athos confirmed, restlessly dragging his feet up under himself. 

“It’s not the most furnished apartment, is it?” D’artagnan observed, as Aramis handed him his Hawaiian pizza. 

“We’ve gone for the minimalist look ever since Porthos had to transform here once.” Aramis supplied, opening his beer and lying back on the worn carpet. 

“Where do you normally transform?” D’artagnan asked Porthos eagerly. 

He meant well, Porthos was sure. It was simple, natural curiosity, but the question set a bitter taste in his throat that mingled with the medley of cheese and meat. That bitterness he’d felt for years; that he felt at the merest glance in the mirror, or when his limbs ached in the weeks after changing, the bitterness that would be swallowed by sheer and crippling agony when the moon became full. 

“I’ve done shifts as a guard down at Musée d’Orsay.” He said shortly, feeling Athos’s eyes on him. It felt oddly calming, like a cool breeze. “There’s a vault there I use.” 

“And it has the upside of being able to take a look at the Impressionist pieces when you’re not feeling quite so bloodthirsty.” Aramis added from the ground.

“Aramis, sit up,” Athos told him, “You’ll choke.” 

Aramis made a huffing noise, but Porthos could hear the fond smile that shaped the sound nonetheless. 

“How do you become a werewolf?” D’artagnan asked, and there was a cautiousness to his tone, as if he’d picked up on the reluctance Porthos addressed his questions with, but that burning curiosity wouldn’t let him stomach silence. 

“You have to be bitten,” Athos said for him, in that steady, quiet voice that fell on Porthos’s ears like a buoy in a storm; giving him some semblance of steadiness in amongst the churning waves. “By another werewolf. They’re generally rare. Werewolf attacks are not usually that neat.”

He’d told Porthos something similar when he’d first explained as much as he could to him, as much as Porthos could take in when he was cold and burning and terrified. And he hadn’t felt rare then; he’d felt alone, not in the way that had always come from being an immigrant in Paris, but truly and utterly alone, no longer just another person from the banlieues of Clichy-sous-Bois, but someone whose fingernails were pushed out by claws every month, his body stretching and warping into something that was as far from human as it was possible to be.

And he was fiercely glad D’artagnan blanched, sending a horrified glance towards Porthos as if he was finally catching up with the implications of it all, glad D’artagnan could appreciate a slither of the horror he’d felt down that darkened side alley so long ago; the wet pavement glittering in the moonlight. 

He was less glad of the brief surge of awkward silence that was punctured only by slow chewing of pizza and the distant fizz of Aramis’s beer. 

Porthos leant down for his with a heavy sigh, digging his fingernails underneath the tab so it opened with a slow pop. 

He could almost sense a new question on D’artagnan’s mind, with the considering intake of breath, as if he was aware of the constant flow of curiosity he was unable to stem.

“So, are you all together?” He finally asked. Which was _not_ the question Porthos had been expecting.

By way of eloquent answer, he began to choke on his drink.

“Now _that’s_ a question.” Aramis said, and Porthos could feel his eyes on him, the amusement in his voice setting his heart erratic. 

“Oh,” D’artagnan said awkwardly, and Porthos chanced a look at Athos. He was still curled up on the armchair, and seemed rather intent on picking at the sleeve of his cardigan, eyelashes framed against his cheekbones. He’d always been hard to read, the flickers of emotions he betrayed darting quick about his features like lightning, missed if you weren’t searching for it. 

“I’m putting the TV on,” Porthos finally muttered, reaching around his pizza box for the remote when the stretched silence grew too heavy for him to endure.

And the rest of their pizza consumption took place with them all painstakingly and futilely fixated on the sitcom playing from small battered TV none of them had got round to paying the license for in the twenty years they’d owned it.

And Porthos tried really hard to focus on the characters, and the inane plot that the canned laughter seemed to be appreciating, but the knowledge of Aramis’s and Athos’s presence seemed to weigh on him, setting a warmth about him as if their proximity sent heat waves against his skin. 

Outside, a siren blared, a habitual noise in a rushing city.

He’d grown up on the idea that France was as good a place as any, and a good deal better than others. But after that darkened, momentary attack in an alleyway during a full moon all those years ago, he had no longer been sure. But he was still here, as if the place had got under his skin, like the blood being pumped along his veins by the heart he wasn’t even sure needed to beat anymore.

He glanced over at Aramis, busy cramming a jalapeño loaded pizza slice into his mouth, and Athos, tracing an invisible pattern on the armchair, hair still damp. And he thought he knew why he was here. 

The smell of baked dough and rich tomato sauce was still furling its way about the room long after the rerun ended, a flurry of adverts rolling across the screen and making Porthos’s eyes ache, and D’artagnan got slowly to his feet. He was still wincing from the movement.

“May I sleep here tonight?” He asked, something akin to sheepishness in his tone, as if his previous frustrations would have turned him from the apartment. 

“Take my bed.” Athos told him quietly, “I’m not tired tonight.” 

“Thank you,” D’artagnan said, and he sounded unsure, eyes glancing to Porthos and Aramis as if they were about to correct him. But he met not resistance, so he leant forwards and set his empty beer bottle atop the sagging cardboard of the now empty pizza boxes, a low breath escaping him as he stretched tired muscles.

“I can take you to the hostel tomorrow.” Aramis offered brightly, “And see if vampire charm works on bored hostel workers.” 

“Is vampire charm a thing?” D’artagnan asked, and then seemed to realise he really was not keen to encroach on yet another area of novelty and mystery this late into the evening. Instead, he shook his head, and with a flicker of a pained smile, stepped across the haphazard circle of pizza boxes and beer bottles, and towards the direction of Athos’s bedroom. 

The door shutting sent an odd, final silence over the three of them. 

Porthos noticed a rush of things, unsure of whether to put it down to a remnant of the full moon, or the ache D’artagnan’s words had laced about his insides, drawn tighter as he was left alone with Aramis and Athos. 

The soft green clock on the microwave blinked at him, the fridge hummed loudly, traffic rushed mutedly beyond the thin glass of the balcony door. The television made static noises as it cooled down. 

And Athos made a low noise as his breath escaped through his nose, a soft, quiet rush of breath Porthos wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t spent so many years attuned to him; listening for everything. 

He wondered why he’d noticed he was alone with them, when he never had done before. It had never been a question of being alone. They were the only people in his life, the only ones he’d ever wanted there.

And Aramis suddenly chuckled into the silence that was never absolute in a city like Paris. 

“Budge up,” He said, and Porthos looked over to see him settling himself on the armchair, legs drawing up to his chest and his left side sloping against Athos, ignoring the cold of his body. 

He looked over at Porthos and nodded to the space on Athos’s right. His expression was amicable, warm. And impossible to refuse even if Porthos had wanted to.

So he got up from the ridiculous plastic chair that was illogically immune to werewolf claws, and crossed the threadbare carpet to fold himself onto the free arm of the chair, arm slotting against Athos’s with an ease and naturalness that felt akin to opening the door to this shabby flat, and knowing he was home. Athos shifted slightly, and Porthos wondered if he could feel the warmth he felt emanating from his own skin; like a burning fever.

“He asks far more questions than I can answer.” Aramis said after a brief pause, looking towards the direction of Athos’s room, and Porthos wondered quickly if he was referring to question that now set his skin flushing and warm, despite Athos’s cold touch. But his next words dispelled it, “There’s things about being, well, _us _that I never tried to understand. I just accepted it.”__

__“Perhaps he should talk with Ninon,” Athos suggested quietly, sounding only partially interested in the topic, “She can explain things a lot better than we can.”_ _

__“Mmm.” Aramis hummed in apparent agreement, and he was looking at Athos, studying him from his perch slightly above him. And Porthos didn’t have to consider why. Athos looked exhausted, in that way that seemed to overtake him sometimes; and weigh down on his shoulders, as if he were Atlas, the globe slung on his back and pressing his heels deep into the ground._ _

__“I didn’t realise these were made of lead,” Aramis said, and he reached out and skimmed his fingers across Athos’s shoulder for a brief moment._ _

__And Athos gave a low exhale of humour, the skin at the corners of his eyes creasing, lips pulling upwards lopsidedly._ _

__“It’s been a long few days.” He said simply, and Porthos couldn’t agree more._ _

__Aramis paused a moment, and then leant down and pressed a kiss to Athos’s temple, wet hair brushing his skin. Porthos watched them, and his fingers gave an odd twitch, as if longing to smooth back Athos’s hair, or touch Aramis’s arm, and see if the skin there was as warm as it looked._ _

__But he did neither of those things. That uncertainty that draped itself about him now and then held him back; having gnawed its determined way forwards when D’artagnan’s question had been met with such a heavy, unaccommodating pause._ _

__Perhaps they should have addressed it long ago. Labelled it, or illustrated it in some way other than simply acting on apparent whim. But they never had, so it was left unlabelled and unillustrated, like a canvas that was a medley of chaotic and indecipherable colour._ _

__Athos shifted next to him, a reel of mint shampoo hitting Porthos’s nostrils, and he caught his eye and smiled in that way of his that wasn’t exactly strained, but was not as happy as Porthos wished it would be._ _

__He lost track of how long they silently sat there, legs knocking together in the crush of the battered city, the only sounds the rush of the streets outside, and the low drone of the light bulb above their heads.__

 _ _-__

 _ _There was a pressing warmth to the budding night air that always came from summertime in the city._ _

__She’d forced herself to grow used to it from the moment she’d arrived in Paris from the countryside; as she’d forced herself to adapt to every card life had dealt her with some invisible mocking smirk._ _

__The same way she’d learnt that the city was never dark at night; not in the way it was miles away, the stars bright above the stretches of quiet fields and dark trees._ _

__She barely thought of Picardy anymore._ _

__She found herself on the right bank that evening, near the Place de la Concorde, walking through the wealthy streets that seemed to be preening in the streetlights. The traffic rushed loud in her ears, and raised voices carried on the air. It felt natural to do this, to walk aimlessly, all night if she chose to; the rush of the city making her dizzy in a way that she craved in the boring daylight hours._ _

__Not that things had been boring lately. Far from it._ _

__Those endless meetings at the Palais grated on her, bored her, but they were unfortunate necessity. And so she endured them; to keep Richelieu’s pockets being emptied into hers, to keep that semblance of protection she had not felt for so long._ _

__And now Athos was nearby; or as near as he could be in a sprawling city crammed with tourists and pigeons._ _

__She turned aimlessly left down a road spanning from a three star hotel; another typical medley of pale buildings lined with parked motorcycles and scaffolding. The people here; the evening stragglers in the gaps between the crowds of tourists and the surge of nightlife, caught her attention, their presence dragging forwards that hunger that was as much a part of her as skin and blood. She would have let it take over, if there hadn’t been so many people here; builders finishing their work on the scaffolding above her head, van drivers blaring radio stations over the sound of talking individuals._ _

__It was odd, that craving sentiment that beat about her body with dizzying strength. That hunger. And it was a hunger in her veins that was for far more than just blood. It was for power too, and the need to survive. But it was also for safety._ _

__She thought she’d found it once before, with Athos, for a slither of time in the reeling length that was immortality. But on reflection, she realised just how tentative it had been; just how strong that feeling of waiting for it to crash down about her head had been._ _

__And collapse it had, those misaligned and badly laid foundations giving way to that shakily constructed life, as if its walls had been made of paper instead of brick._ _

__And gone were the days where he’d look at her as if she were the only thing in his world, the late nights slipping into sunlit mornings as his hand had stroked her hair; cradling her head as if she had been an infant._ _

__Those days were gone, consigned to the long memory that was the curse of living for far longer than any human was supposed to live._ _

__She looked at the exposed, bare shoulder of a passing man, and thought of the burst of skin underneath teeth, the rush of warm, wet blood._ _

__The many tasks she had from Richelieu could wait until the morning, she supposed. Elaborate webs of intrigue that she took little interest in; but ones she’d embroiled herself in nonetheless. Plans to increase his power, to pull himself ahead, fingernails clawing, to reach the top of the bloody mess of politics._ _

__And she was there at the side-lines, in the shadows. Just where she liked to stand._ _

__She turned down another alley, not quite managing to lose herself in the maze of Paris anymore, but resolutely trying her best. She’d wait here until someone wandered down here, perhaps in fifteen minutes, or drunkenly at one o’clock, or as light began to crowd over the haphazard roofs and lopsided aerials once more. And it would be quick, perhaps painless, and that hunger would subside itself momentarily._ _

__She sank back against the wall of the nearest stained building, her hands flat against the stone, cold in the dying light of day. And she folded herself into the scenery of the alleyway; becoming one with the cobbles, the drainpipes and the fire escape that branched above her head like the metal branches of a bare tree._ _

__It would be painless, and the hunger would go._ _

__Sometimes, she almost believed that.__

 _ _-__

 _ _Athos became aware of the noises he didn’t remember beginning, and he realised he must have managed to fall asleep after all._ _

__His eyelids flickered briefly, before he resolutely shut them again; a brief span of bright morning light sweeping past his lashes before disappearing once more._ _

__He focused on the sounds again; the ones that laced an apartment block on a weekday morning. Ones he never took much notice of really, but ones he listened to now, as if they anchored him to this warm, safe apartment, washing him up from the shores of that constant, inexhaustible heaviness._ _

__Someone was moving lightly about the kitchen area, feet sounding on the linoleum tiles. China clinked together as a cup was taken down from amongst its fellows in the cupboard whose door was coming loose. The kettle rose and peaked before it clicked off. The extractor fan above the oven droned low, and an iron began to hiss._ _

__He listened to those sounds; letting them wash over him like ocean swell; soothing him as if there really was warm sand beneath his back, instead of the shabby material of that battered armchair._ _

__He couldn’t remember falling asleep. Perhaps it had been when Aramis and Porthos were still warm at his side, because that seemed like the time when his body would most allow him rest; allow him to relax instead of stringing out that bone deep exhaustion that pounded on his head and turned his insides to lead._ _

__He opened his eyes._ _

__The morning light felt somehow paler now; his eyes adjusting to it as it seeped between his lashes, bright on his retinas._ _

__His eyes flicked, unconsciously and suddenly, over to Aramis, who was ironing over by the long stretch of windows; the thick curtains still drawn across them, the room growing darker by the minute as his eyes grew used to the light._ _

__“Morning.” Aramis grinned, slowly and lazily, and Athos wondered when they’d grown so attuned to one another’s movements that he could tell the moment his eyelids opened._ _

__He scrubbed a hand across his face, pressing fingers against tired eyes. He wondered if this constant exhaustion was a result of being dead, or if it were the thousand other things that he carried on his shoulders as if he were Atlas, or Herakles._ _

__He felt he knew the answer to that._ _

__“What are you ironing?” He asked, voice rough from sleep, eyes still struggling against the light that was seeping out from the curtains, falling across the ironing board. It skimmed against Aramis’s hair; lighting the strands about his head red; as if he were wearing a halo._ _

__“Oh, just some shirts.” Aramis responded casually, “I think they’re Porthos’s?” He peered down at the blue shirt the iron was currently hovering over, “Judging from the shoulder width, anyway.” He looked up and met Athos’s gaze. “Shall I make some coffee?”_ _

__Athos let out a low noise of acquiescence, and Aramis moved off to the kettle, steam unfurling from its lip. The coffee cups were already lined up on the counter, four mismatched mugs. Athos spotted the one Porthos had smuggled from the D’Orsay, and one Aramis had taken from a café back in the 1930’s._ _

__Athos sank back into the chair as Aramis took the kettle off its stand, the resulting hissing filling the room, making the instant coffee that was never quite the same as the espressos in the small cafes along the boulevards; the sun streaking the great, wide roads that Aramis had known when they were still small, narrows streets._ _

__The small slither of window over by the hob was slightly ajar, and traffic and street sweepers were rattling loudly in the road below._ _

__The day was going to be hot, he could tell from that dazzling clear sky he could glimpse; the slow sun no doubt beginning to make the pale walls of the opposite buildings gleam._ _

__D’artagnan emerged as the smell of instant coffee began to permeate the room; rich and strong and settling about Athos’s lungs as he breathed it in._ _

__“Is there coffee?” He asked unnecessarily._ _

__“And dubiously fresh cereal.” Aramis added, opening the cupboard to his left with a free hand, “And there’s probably a banana somewhere.”_ _

__“I think I’ll pass.” D’artagnan said politely._ _

__“There is a patisserie two doors away as well.” Athos muttered, and Aramis sent him a thoroughly unamused look._ _

__“What’s happening today?” D’artagnan asked as he moved over to the large span of windows, moving back the curtain to peer out at the street below. Aramis sent him a disapproving look from where he was setting the milk back in the fridge. Athos never knew why he turned his coffee into warm, sugary milk._ _

__“We’re saving your belongings from a grubby hostel.” Aramis replied, and he moved out of the kitchen to hand D’artagnan a coffee. The D’Orsay mug ended up being deposited by Athos’s elbow. He sent it a wistful look and tried to remember the exact bitterness the contents had once caused against his throat. “And then we’re due at court to babysit a bitter, bad tempered old vampire.”_ _

__“What could possibly go wrong?” Athos finished, and Aramis sent him a despairing look, as if he had tempted fate. Which he probably had._ _

__Porthos emerged from his room a moment later, bare feet scuffing against the threadbare carpet, hair pushed at odd angles from the night. The amount of fidgeting Porthos achieved in his sleep was rather impressive, Athos mused._ _

__He grunted a rough morning to Athos, hands shoved in the pocket of large grey hoodie. He paused when he saw the ironing board, and smiled._ _

__“Don’t say he's attempting laundry again.” He snorted, treading towards the kitchen, where the last mug of coffee was still perched. Athos was never sure how Aramis had perfected the art of making hot drinks just before the time Porthos woke up. “Let’s not forget the time we had to get rid of our tumble dryer.”_ _

__“Why?” D’artagnan asked curiously._ _

__“There was the matter of expense.” Athos began, but Porthos cut him off with a bark of laughter._ _

__“Aramis couldn’t get over shrinking all his ridiculous 19th century shirts in them.”_ _

__“They were _vintage_.” Aramis pouted, settling onto one of the plastic chairs. “I’m still waiting for frills to come back into fashion.” _ _

__“He had a resurgence of wearing cravats two years ago.” Porthos told D’artagnan, who was looking torn between amusement and mild disbelief, “It was horrendous.”_ _

__“It was _Romantic._ ”_ _

__“If we’re quite finished.” Athos interrupted, and Porthos stopped whatever response he had readied, eyes glinting with playfulness. “We need to check in with Treville before we meet the Duke.”_ _

__“I’ll take D’artagnan to the hostel and then meet you at the Palais.” Aramis said, still sending put out glances in Porthos’s direction._ _

__“I suppose I’m being left outside again?” D’artagnan asked, bitterness lacing his tone as he brought his mug of coffee to his lips._ _

__Athos felt Aramis’s and Porthos’s eyes flick to him, as he studied the sloping curve of the handle of the cup at his elbow. Steam was still furling up from the contents._ _

__“It’s too dangerous to leave him alone all day.” Porthos said, as if he were trying to convince Athos. As if Athos would exile D’artagnan to wandering the streets of Paris in the name of duty. Perhaps he might have done that in blinder, earlier days. But it hurt slightly for anyone to feel he might do that now. Perhaps that stern, cool façade he forced himself to hold up was stronger than he’d thought. “Even if he stays here.”_ _

__“Richelieu will object.” He said, “And Rochefort might kill him if they’re left alone together.”_ _

__“So don’t leave me alone with him.” D’artagnan cut in, and he was smiling, as if Athos hadn’t just casually suggested his potential murder._ _

__“I’m merely letting you know what you’re walking into.” He told him, his lips dragging themselves into what felt like a smile. It tasted as bitter as the coffee he was trying to remember._ _

__D’artagnan considered him a moment, and then he shook his head._ _

__“I think I’ve already walked into it.”_ _

__Aramis sent Athos a look, the hand not clutching the mug that was imprinted with the words ‘bite me’ waving as if the argument had long been lost._ _

__“Then you can meet us at the Palais with Aramis.” Athos told D’artagnan simply, and he didn’t miss the flash of surprise that stole itself over D’artagnan’s features._ _

__He sank back into the armchair as Aramis and Porthos struck up a low conversation, the words washing inaudibly over him as he let the smell of instant coffee seep across his senses. It seemed to light along his skin, wakening him in a way that felt akin to drinking it, perhaps. It was the result of the long stretch of years, without food or drink passing his lips. He’d learnt to remember their tastes as if they too were ghosts, settling along his imagination like a flicker of movement at the corner of his eye._ _

__He sometimes wondered if perhaps he was more dead than Aramis or Porthos were; a shadow further into the darkness of nonexistence, a slither further into a silent nothingness._ _

__He looked across at D’artagnan, who was sipping his coffee as he watched the progress of Porthos and Aramis’s conversation, and he wondered how he could let him settle amongst them all; in this dead and dangerous existence set pitifully amongst the vibrancy of Paris._ _

__“Well, we should probably get going,” Aramis’s voice broke Athos from his reverie, and he kept his eyes resolutely fixed on the coffee cup at his side; cooling visibly before his eyes. “But we’ll meet you both in an hour and a half, I expect.”_ _

__“You know where to find us.” Porthos grunted, and the sigh of breath and creak of plastic chair announced his getting to his feet._ _

__“In the lion’s den.” Aramis replied, a smile in his voice._ _

__“Come on,” Porthos’s voice said, metres from Athos’s ear, and he reached down to touch his shoulder with a gentleness that did not normally embody his movements. And Athos was pulled from that weighted reverie that sunk him down, as if the hawsers of an anchor were tied about him, pulling him down into the bottomless depths of dark ocean._ _

__“Ok.” He heard himself say, Porthos’s touch, the nearness of his voice like a stream of fresh, clean air that salvaged his tired mind._ _

__And he got to his feet; the slip of morning light meeting his eyes; Paris flooding through the window to pull him into another day._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woooo gosh sorry there was such a huge delay between updates !! but thank you to everyone reading this it's making it so much fun to write! <3

**Author's Note:**

> omg ok so i saw a prompt for this a while ago (and i know it's been filled and there's a few fab au's already swimming around) but having this lot float/stalk/run/sulk around Paris was too great an opportunity to miss ??
> 
> title 95% attributed to oscar wilde (aka the bae)


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